


What If the Storm Ends

by Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon



Category: The Expanse (TV), The Expanse Series - James S. A. Corey
Genre: Alex Kamal Needs a Hug, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Sexual Situations, Dark, Dissociation, Inspired by Fanfiction, Isolation, Jealousy, Loneliness, M/M, Madness, Martian Sponsorship Program, Mental Illness, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-War, Probably Not the Happiest Thing You'll Ever Read, Rough Sex, The Roci Family Tries But..., Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2019-10-06 05:32:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 34,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17339486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon/pseuds/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon
Summary: Alex Kamal is a Martian Expatriate without a Sponsor.Alex Kamal has not left the Roci once in the last seven months.Alex Kamal is slowly going mad.A look at the effects of isolation on the human psyche and the lifelines we cling to, healthy and not.(Set in the Martian Sponsorship Program AU created by the phenomenalSzcay.)





	1. Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Szcay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Szcay/gifts).
  * Inspired by [White Collar War Crimes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12018603) by [Szcay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Szcay/pseuds/Szcay). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the AU: The war between Earth and Mars is brief, but the repercussions far-reaching. With Earth victorious, new sanctions have been placed on Mars, including limitations on Martian travel. Enter, the Martian Sponsorship Program: Any off-world Martian must be sponsored by an Earther. But what happens when one human is given complete control over the life and rights of another?
> 
> (I mostly pull my characterization and canon from the novels, but I definitely pick and choose. There's also a tiny bit of show sprinkled in.)
> 
> This story is born of, and dedicated to, szcay, author of [White Collar War Crimes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12018603/chapters/27201696), my first (and favorite) Alex and Amos story. While _What If the Storm Ends_ takes a different approach to Alex and Amos’ relationship, it is set (with full permission and blessing!) in the same AU as _WCWC_.

**-NOW-**

 

Alex Kamal once spent thirty-six horrific days trapped in a rad shelter with seventeen other people. If he lingers on the memory, he can still feel it all with visceral clarity. The smothering heat. The suffocating stench of all that trapped life. The flaring tempers and the subtle insanity that swirled within a soap-bubble facade of polite humanity. A shimmering, shifting, lacy barrier of deep-bred civility. Would-be roars held down to low grunts and grumbled curses. If rescue had come in those first seventy-two hours, they all would have been fine. Tired. Annoyed. But fine.

But then 72:01 brought with it a snide comment and the bubble burst. That single moment was indelible. Quiet and profound. And then all the ugly came pouring out.

He grew to hate every single person in that box. Their faces. The creaking, grating, squealing sounds of their voices.

Alex would give his left nut to be back in the rad shelter right now.

He’s been sitting between the inner and outer hulls of the Roci for twenty-one hours and thirty-four minutes. Twenty-one hours and thirty-four minutes of waiting. Twenty-one hours and thirty-four minutes of thinking. Twenty-one hours and thirty-four minutes of stillness. He remains unmoving, for fear of creating even the slightest noise, and with it, speculation. But there are moments when he’s so cramped and so bored that his fear drains by degrees to the point that exhaustion overrides caution. Moments when he grows complacent, and a careless adjustment of his position results in a hand or foot knocking against the outer hull. He hears nothing in the vacuum, but he knows, sure as shit, that the sound, however faint, would be detectable within the ship.

Then the terror comes on so fast it makes him weak and he curls carefully in on himself, coiling around and through the web of tethers that hold him in place.

_Did they hear? Do they know? Did Alex just get everyone on the Roci killed to avoid a leg cramp?_

His EVA suit keeps him protected in the lack of atmosphere.

There isn’t really a breach in the outer hull, but they’ve simulated one so that anyone boarding the ship will think twice about checking the space where Alex is hiding too carefully. So far, between the visible damage to the outer hull, and the hard vacuum in the crawlspaces, their deception has worked.

It’s ever-present in his mind that next time… next time it might not.

He sometimes uses the suit’s sedative injections to knock his ass out. But then he has drug-induced nightmares and wakes up gasping and clawing the air, trying to escape the ghosts, or chase them away.

When he’s awake, he spends hours lost in fantasy. He jumps seamlessly between each duty station of an MCRN ship. He’s like the kid who throws the football AND catches it AND makes the touchdown, commentating all the while. The fantasy lets him be everywhere at once. Piloting through evasive maneuvers, and painting targets, and launching torpedoes, triggering the PDCs, and firing the massive railguns. The ship in his mind is strange: an amalgam of every battleship he ever served on, as well as pieces of the Donnager from his recollections of their brief time aboard her. He runs his hands over the controls of every weapon in the arsenal, feeling the power of each under his fingertips. He imagines the destructive force of each one and how many Earthers it could incapacitate. No, that’s a lie. How many it would _kill_. He mentally crawls over the schematics of the UNN’s _Okimbo_ and the _Agatha King_ , climbing from deck to deck to sabotage both from the inside. He _would_ have sacrificed himself to win the war.

This certainty is the special privilege of a man riding the pine.

If only he’d been in the fight…

But the truth is, he doesn’t even know why Earth and Mars fought in the end. Not really. There's the propaganda, of course, during the war it came from both sides. Now Earth, as the victor, has the privilege of rewriting the history. _Mars overstepped_. _Mars engaged first. Mars got what it deserved._

A narrow beam of light startles Alex and he jerks, barely managing not to bang into anything. His heart rate spikes and the EVA suit bleats at him. The noise is ear-splitting and, frankly, counter-productive. What the hell about this dog and pony show would do a damn thing to bring a man’s heart rate down? He frantically uses his chin to shut off the alarm. The sound immediately disappears, and in its place is the rush of blood in his ears and his own ragged, uneven breathing.

They’ve found him.

Christ.

They’ve found him.

If they were going to find him like this, well, shit... He might just as well have been sitting on his bunk watching one of his noir films.

And then the beam of light drops away and Alex can see Amos floating toward him, his face dimly lit by the glow of his suit’s HUD. And, Christ, but Alex wants to strangle the man and hug him, both. He’s not sure he could get away with either, but right now, the only thing stopping him is the tethers that hold him in place.

Amos floats right up to him so that they’re helmet-to-helmet and when he speaks, his voice carries through the vibrations.

“Hey, brother.”

The sound is hollow, slightly distorted. But it’s the first sound other than his own breathing (and that goddamn alarm) that Alex has heard in twenty-one hours and—he checks the time—forty-two minutes. The sound of Amos’ voice may possibly be the most glorious thing he’s ever heard.

“They gone?” he asks, his voice croaky from disuse. He clears his throat.

“Not yet,” Amos says.

“What's up then?”

“Cap said to check in, make sure you’re holding up.”

“I'm fine,” Alex says in a voice that’s too bright, too cheerful. The gleaming lie of it hurts his ears. “You shouldn’t be risking this, coming in here to talk to me,” he says.

His face hurts. Is he smiling? Oh, shit, he is, but not like normal. It’s a horrible imitation of _everything is alright_. He drops the smile immediately and his face feels heavy with the weight of truth.

“No risk, plus, Cap said. Naomi rigged up a reading to say there were some microfractures in the inner hull, stress from the breach, but I need to get a patch on the outer hull before the fractures get worse and we lose containment completely. They got a little twitchy, looked like the were wishing they’d brought EVA suits. So, then when I told ’em I was coming in here to weld on a patch, they got right the fuck out of my way.”

“When are they leaving?” The question feels distinctly like _Are we there yet?_ He just wants the interlopers gone. He wants to return to the warm embrace of the Roci, to wrap his girl’s arms around him as he slides into the pilot’s seat and buckles up the harness. Wants to eat something not delivered through a tube.

“Soon. Tonight, maybe.”

Amos pushes off slow, floating toward the fake hull breach and Alex has to clench his hands into fists to keep himself from reaching after the man as he maneuvers past the tangle of tethers holding Alex in place.

No.

Stay?

Please?

_Please stay._

He can’t make the request sound easy. Even in his head, it wriggles around like worms in a fishbelly. Before this started, so, a solid lifetime ago, Alex could speak _without_ desperation coloring every syllable. Amos is his friend. They talk. They laugh. Amos with his hollow smiles, Alex with his real ones. No. Wrong. They talk- _ed_. They laugh- _ed_. Past tense. He can remember casual conversation, but that’s been siphoned out of him. Every time he has to climb between hulls, or hide under the floors, every time his crewmates have to hide him like a corpse they don’t want discovered and he is forced to sit in the darkness, in the tight, hollow void-spots of his Roci, he loses another little bit of _casual_.

His breath comes out in short little gasps and another goddamn alarm goes off. CO2 has dropped. He's hyperventilating. _Focus,_ says the alarm with all the tenderness of a screeching cat. _Breathe slowly, Kamal._

He chins it off.

Amos has fired up the plasma welding torch and seems to be banging around, making a ton of racket for show. Alex tenses, after so long keeping himself as still and silent as possible, it’s hard not to cringe imagining the noise Amos is making.

Maybe when he’s done they can… Just for a few moments… He won’t even wish for an entire sixty seconds. Thirty-five at most.

_—Amos? You remember that time we took that money I won at darts and turned it into a thousand dollars?_

_—Sure,_ Amos will say.

_—Damn good times. Next time you’re on Tycho, you gotta go back to that table, alright? Go clean ’em out for me._

_—Will do, brother_ , Amos will say.

_—And Amos? When I get out of here, we should play cards. Give you a chance to practice._

_—Sounds like a plan._

...Sounds like a plan.

He’s ready. He’s ready for the conversation, if Amos will just come back over. He mouths the words over and over in anticipation. He just needs a little more time, just a little more conversation. Words he can play back in his head if he’s stuck here for another twenty-one hours and… No. Another twenty-two hours, now.

But when Amos is finished pretending to work on the hull, he packs up his tools and he moves past Alex. There’s a brief moment when their suits touch, the grazing pressure of an arm moving past an arm, and hope _surges_ through Alex, but then Amos keeps going, the beam of his flashlight leading him away into the darkness.

He tosses a wave over his shoulder and Alex doesn’t cry, goddammit.

He doesn’t.

But his EVA suit’s environmental controls must be malfunctioning because he can feel sweat, or maybe condensation, beading up and rolling down his cheeks.

<<< >>>


	2. Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SEVEN MONTHS AGO: It's a fine fucking evening...until it isn't.

**-THEN-**

 

“Christ, hoss, but that was a fun ride,” Alex says for the third time that evening as the crew of the Rocinante pours into the galley. He laces his fingers together and stretches his arms above his head. “Damn fun.”

“‘Fun’ is subjective,” Holden says. “Getting holes shot in the side of our girl isn’t my idea of a good time.”

“Hole, singular.” Alex’s tone is cheerful. “They unloaded eighteen tubes at us and only one of those babies got close enough to do a lick of damage? By all accounts we should be free-ballin’ it in space right now. But we aren’t.”

“Sometimes I think you just like going on the juice, Alex.”

“No denying it, Captain,” Alex says. The cocktail that keeps him awake and focused during high G maneuvers ain’t too bad, but in truth it can’t hold a candle to the amped-up high he only gets from flying. “This whole dang trip’s been wild, though. Amos, ya can’t tell me you didn’t like breaking that guy’s arm.”

Amos glances up at him, curiously furrowed brow casting a shadow over his eyes. “What guy?”

" _What guy?”_ Alex repeats. “The one in the cargo hold, the one that insulted Naomi!”

They fan out with easy familiarity, falling automatically to their accustomed roles in the galley. Prepping dinner together has become second nature and they are able to move around one another fluidly. It’s something guests find endlessly entertaining.

“I could have handled that asshole myself, by the way,” Naomi says, but the smile that subtly traces its way across her lips says she’s goddamn satisfied with the way things turned out.

“Yeah, that was good,” Amos says with his own small smile, and then, “And, sorry, Boss.”

“How could you forget the guy though?” Alex asks, pulling ingredients from storage without having to think about the recipe. “You break a lot of arms this go around?”

“Yeah.” Amos shrugs, brushing past him to grab a dish out of the cabinet. “Three or four. Lotta assholes on Pallas.”

“He joking?” Alex asks. It’s not like he was with Amos every minute they were on Pallas Station, but that’s a lot of arm-breaking for the the half-hour he and Holden were gone.

Holden shakes his head. “Do you really need to ask?” And, “Toss me the cheese.”

“One cheese-like substitute, coming right up,” Alex says, and tosses the tub of fake ricotta over to the captain.

Because they just got paid, they’re having lasagna for dinner, and for dessert? The ugliest looking tiramisu this side of Neptune. Alex isn’t sure when the tradition started; maybe one of those things where they accidentally made the same meal twice, but these days, the crew of the Roci always celebrates a successful job with faux Italian fare.

Once, after a courier run to Europa, _someone_ thought they’d be clever and switch it up— _someone_ definitely not being a well-intentioned Martian with a Mariner Valley drawl. The resulting hamburgers came out sour.

It probably had more to do with the questionable quality of the beef Holden’s contact had provided than the actual meal, but Alex was still the one who took the flak. After all, he’d been the one to break tradition.

Once the food is finished, and they’re at the table, Alex digs in with gusto, washing down bites with something that’s not quite beer, but close enough. He laughs, shooting the shit with his friends and generally feeling pretty damn good about life.

They’re headed for Tycho Station for some repairs and a few days’ shore leave and he’s looking forward to stretching his legs, playing darts, and maybe finding a lovely lady to share his bed for the night. It’s been a while and his dick hasn’t been subtle about that fact. He _could_ hit up the brothels, but Alex likes the challenge, the chase. And so maybe that means he doesn’t get laid as much as he could if he paid for it, but maybe he’s more satisfied anyway.

“Alright, Kamal, your turn,” Holden says after telling them all about the first (and only, he insists) time he was brought home in the back of a police cruiser and the hour-long, surround-sound lecture he received from all five fathers and three mothers. He leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach. “Worst trouble you ever got into as a kid.”

“Don’t even have to think about it. Got the most painful butt-bustin’ of my life when I was eight years old. Permanently changed my gait.” He loves the story. That adventure was his first taste of the same sort of freedom he feels when he flies. “So, me and my friend Gregory found this old cart parked down the street from my house…”

Alex weaves the tale dramatically, making it a story of narrow escapes and high-speed chases, with a hint of romance (peacocking for the neighbor’s daughter) thrown in for good measure.

He and Gregory both knew they were in for a world of hurt when they got home, so they decided the only rational thing for it was to make a clean break and never return. Realizing they didn’t have any provisions though, Alex suggested they sneak into Mrs. Chatterjee’s house to ‘borrow’ some food. It wasn’t stealing, they’d send her money when they got to where they were going.

Except they didn’t count on Mrs. Chatterjee being home, or how quick the octogenarian could move. That’s where Alex lost Gregory, his best friend caught in an ear-pull that looked liable to do permanent damage.

Alex pulls off his cap for the next part, clutching it to his chest.

“First and last time I ever left a man behind.”

Having betrayed his only ally, Alex went running for the cart and made it about halfway to the tube station before it crapped out on him—apparently there’d been a reason it was abandoned the way it was. He tried to push it home, gave up, and spent the rest of the walk back crafting a tale of threats, manipulations, and eventual kidnapping, all orchestrated by sinister, shadowy forces with mysterious Belter ties.

“Never mind all the witnesses that saw me and Greg tearin’ across open road yelling that we were pirates. Lot of witnesses, including—much to my chagrin—Anaya, the pretty little girl next door who _said_ she was in love with me.”

He’s got Holden in stitches, which is a rare treat as it takes something special to make the captain bust a gut. Naomi’s toasting eight-year-old Alex and his ingenuity and even Amos is favoring him with a broad grin.

It’s a fine fucking evening.

And then four hand terminals go off at once and they all look down, the news feed simultaneously playing from each screen.

A U.N. official appears in her crisp navy dress uniform with its high gray collar. Her back and shoulders are straight and proud, her face is a mask. There’s a moment—always a moment with these things—when Alex thinks he’s about to hear about the death of Earth or Mars, or even both. It doesn’t matter how many reports he sees. It doesn’t matter how long the war continues, that fear is always present. He never seems to grow numb to it.

All the excitement and humor has drained out of the room.

_“It is with much pride and relief that we announce the end of hostilities between the inner planets. This morning, at 0630 Greenwich Mean Time, the U.N.N. fleet’s commanding officers received and accepted the complete and unconditional surrender of the Martian Congressional Republic Navy. The entire MCRN fleet has acknowledged the cessation of conflict and U.N.N. forces are hard at work disabling the Martian ships. POWs captured in the early days of the war are, even now, on relief vessels, Earth-bound. We honor our fallen comrades and the sacrifices they made. Our losses have been great, but we never wavered.”_

They lost.

Mars...lost.

He can barely reconcile it. Mars, even with her technological superiority, somehow _lost_.

And on the other side of it, an almost-relief comes. Now, maybe, he can hear the chime of his hand terminal without jumping. Without panicking. Without fearing that he’s about to learn that his loved ones back home will be nothing more than the dust his planet is known for.

_“In the articles of surrender, the MCRN freely acknowledged their fault in instigating the armed conflict with Earth. The MCRN will immediately be dismantled and the Martian Government has been dissolved to be temporarily replaced by a provisional government made up of U.N. appointees, which will endeavor to smooth the re-entry of the Mars Colony into the U.N.N. as a junior member. Until further notice, there are new travel-restrictions for all persons entering and leaving Mars Colony, and any Martians currently off-world will immediately be subject to the strictures of the new Martian Sponsorship Program.”_

The U.N. official making the announcement is quite a looker. Has Alex seen her somewhere before? Then again, maybe not. But she is strangely captivating; his focus seems to be drifting away from the substance of the announcement. All he can seem to do is admire the shape of her mouth.

 _“—report to the Earth-Mars Sponsor Office, the EMSO, in order to register as a Sponsor of a Martian Expatriate._ ”

“This can’t be real.”

“Seriously, what the fuck is going on here?”

“Alex, you OK?”

Alex blinks and looks away from the woman on the screen. All eyes are on him and he can’t help feeling that somehow he single-handedly lost the war, negotiated the terms of surrender, and handed his people up on a platter to U.N. designs. Glancing back at his terminal, he is momentarily puzzled to find the woman is nothing special to look at after all.

The whole crew is still staring at him, vibrating with questions and tensions. He shakes his head. It’s not a ‘no, I’m not OK’ or an ‘I don’t know’ or a ‘surely not,’ it’s an ‘I’ve got no goddamn clue what to say.’

“Did they really just announce that no Martian can go anywhere off-planet without an Earther chaperone?” Amos asks, an eyebrow quirked. “That’s fucked up.”

“There’s no way they’ll be able to enforce something like this,” Holden says, frowning deeply. “Maybe in, closer to Earth, but out here in the Belt? What are they going to do? Tag and release?”

“Well,” Alex says, finally pulling free of his initial shock. New emotions arise. Frustration. Regret. And strangely, amusement. The thought that he’ll need an Earther to hold his hand everywhere he goes just because some U.N. prick said so? It makes him chuckle. “At least I’ve got you two jerks here to ‘escort’ me. Wonder if that’ll include walkin’ me to the head when I need to take a piss.” Naomi snorts at his words and Alex grins at her, saying, “Looks like you dodged a bullet, XO.”

“Looks like,” Naomi agrees.

“It won’t hold,” Alex says, and there’s a part of him that’s confident he’s right. Sponsorship Program? How the hell would they enforce something like this? Maybe on Earth and Luna, but out in the Belt? It’ll be a joke. Give it a month of bureaucratic and logistical nightmares, and the U.N. will be drowning in a flood of bad press.

In the meantime, there’s going to be a shit-storm and looky here, not an umbrella in sight. Alex is lucky, he has his crewmates. He knows there’s a whole passel of others who won’t have a soul in the galaxy to care a damn what happens to them.

Twelve hours later, the EMSO makes the official guidelines for the Martian Sponsorship Program available to the galaxy.

Alex had been talking to his sister over a connection with a seventeen minute delay and he’d _finally_ received her reply _—_ gales of laughter at a joke he can only half-remember telling _—_ when he receives the EMSO alert.

The smile doesn’t so much drop off his face as melt, like wax over an open flame.

He scrolls down the page with numb fingers, eyes skimming, hitting the bolded and italicized portions. Passages in angry red assault his eyes.

Hardly realizing he’s doing it, Alex  launches toward the door. He practically barrels into Amos as he pushes through. The Roci has been drifting in space while Naomi runs the diagnostic cycling of the Epstein drive Amos requested and goddamn does Alex wish they were under thrust right now. He needs to stomp, he needs to run, to slam things around. This whole situation seems to merit a little more gravity.

“You OK?” Amos asks.

“Fine,” Alex says and then, “No, not fine. You check your terminal?”

“Been working in Engineering, what…?” He trails off as he pulls up the document on his hand terminal. After less than a minute, Amos lets fly a string of ‘fucks’ of the noun, adjective, and adverb varieties.

Sponsors—as envisioned by the U.N.—have shit-all to do with holding a man’s hand while he takes a piss or tucking him into bed at night. All the jokes he’s been making rot on the vine and Alex has to fight to process the words through the hiss and pop of static in his brain.

“‘In exchange for agreeing to sponsor a Registered Martian Expatriate, hereinafter designated as RME, a Sponsor will become the sole guardian of, and will have full legal rights over, and responsibilities, for their selected RME.’” Alex reads the line aloud three times, trying to make sense of the situation.

Full legal rights and responsibilities.

That’s complete and total control over another human being, and nowhere in the lengthy document does it say anything about the rights of an expat to refuse to be Sponsored. There’s no appeals process. There’s barely even oversight.

 

> _Sponsors will check in with the Earth-Mars Sponsor Office by the 15th of each month, either in-person or via comm. No more than six (6) of these check-ins may be done remotely in a calendar year, without a special dispensation. During inspection, the EMSO will ensure that Sponsors are following the guidelines of the Program. If it is believed that a Sponsor is not holding their RME accountable, monitoring may become necessary. The EMSO reserves the right to perform routine inspections and interrogations. Continued failure to keep an RME in line will result in corrective measures, including termination of the Sponsorship contract and in extreme cases, fines, or even jail time for the Sponsor. The EMSO has put together a Best Practices document (see Addendum 2a) to assist Sponsors in managing the affairs of their RME._

There’s not word one on the well-being of the expat. _Keep ’em in line, or suffer the consequences._ Alex frowns, sure that approach will create a nice little hotbed of abuse and subjugation.

“Why wouldn’t they just shuttle us home?” Alex asks, his brows furrowing, his voice strained. “If they’re so goddamn worried about Martians roaming the galaxy, why not have these ‘Sponsors’ escort us back to Mars? Hell, if Earth is going to lose its collective head, why not just round us all up and send us home on one big transport like cattle?”

“That what you want?” Holden comes down the ladder from the Ops deck headfirst, then spins to match his orientation to theirs, and hooks his foot under a rung to steady himself in the null G. His face is a mask of barely controlled fury. He’s holding his terminal like he wants to chuck it down the hall.

“Of course it’s not what I want, Cap. Christ. But this…?” He motions at the screen, the words dancing and shifting until they’re just blurry dots in front of his unfocused eyes. “This is…”

“Slavery,” Holden says with bitter and hard disapproval. “It’s slavery. This says I could drag you kicking and screaming down to the Earth-Mars Sponsor Office, and say, ‘hey, found one, this one’s mine,’ and I’d get full custody of you, your finances, your holdings, your property… Conceivably _forever_. There’s no end-date to the Program.” His captain looks physically ill as he turns away from Alex.

“I know you wouldn’t do that,” Alex says, just to have something to say.

“ _None_ of us would,” Amos says, “And I’ll break the face of any asshole who tries.”

“You make a good deterrent, Amos. It’s not me I’m worried about.” That’s a lie. He doesn’t know why he’s lying to his crewmates.

“It’s not enough,” Holden says, finally turning back to Alex. His face is red with his anger.

Alex needs a hard sit down. And a drink. He’s floating in null G, and his knees _still_ feel too weak to hold him.

Unlike Holden, Naomi descends feet-first from the Ops deck. She lands lightly, reaching out and touching Holden’s shoulder with the barest-there pressure to steady herself. Her eyes are glued to her terminal, the glow of it lights her features. Her eyes dart back and forth over the words. “Did you guys see—?”

“Yeah, we fuckin’ saw, Boss,” Amos says.

“So what are we going to do? We’ve got two weeks until this _reward system_ goes into effect. It won’t just be the Earthers at that point. Belters will be looking for him, too.” Naomi finally looks up, her eyes meeting Alex’s. He sees so much shock and horror and _sympathy_ in them. “They’re paying extra for military personnel, Alex.”

Alex opens his mouth to make a joke, because he suddenly finds it (really) important to lighten the mood, but he can’t choose which missile to launch. It’s between telling her he’s safe from that at least, since he ain’t active duty, or telling her she’s hit a double jackpot if she wants to turn him in. Both jokes taste stale.

He closes his mouth.

Holden is intense and earnest as he says, “There’s no way in hell this is happening to anyone in my crew. Don’t worry Alex. We’ll protect you. We’ll _hide_ you if we have to.”

By the time the registration deadline has passed, Alex is certain: he’d have been a damn sight better off with a Sponsor.

<<< >>>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading!


	3. Now

**-NOW-**

 

Alex wobbles on legs like jelly and he’s glad for Amos’ turned back. Awkwardly, he tries to sort through his weakness. Now that he’s out, he’ll shake it off, the distress. He’ll be himself again. Good ol’ Alex. Friendly Alex. Funny Alex. Totally, completely together Alex.

Except his whole body feels weak and wrong. His muscles don’t stretch far enough to fit over his bones. The dim lights of the Roci seem to burn brighter than the full force of the orbital mirror on Ganymede. It makes him feel exposed, hung up on a hook in a gallery, _Portrait of the Martian Expatriate_. Sounds are louder—the thrum of the ship is wrong somehow. _What happened to my girl? What did y’all do to make her sound like that?_

He wants to talk until he’s hoarse, if he can just remember how to speak. Normally.

Walk. Talk. Breathe. He’s been doing all that, no trouble, for forty years and then some.

Momentarily woozy, Alex stops and steadies himself against the wall, and he’s startled by the texture of the webbing underneath his fingertips. Goddamn, but it feels good touchin’ something that ain’t the inside of an EVA suit. He closes his eyes, runs his hand along the thin ropes. He drags the pads of his fingers down, letting the material gently scratch his skin.

“Want me to leave the two of you alone?” Amos asks and when Alex startles, his eyes flying open, he finds the big mechanic casting a meaningful glance at the wall. When Alex doesn’t answer, he prods. “You alright, brother?”

_No._

“Yeah.”

“C’mon then, Naomi made dinner. Some kind of curry casserole.”

Not a successful run then. No lasagna. No ugly tiramisu.

“Hey Amos…” he says, stumbling for a few steps before finally finding his stride. If he can just keep moving, maybe he’ll outrun the horror of the last thirty-six hours. And if he can move _fast enough_ , maybe the last seven months, as well. _Keep moving, keep moving, keep_ — “You remember that time we…”

He can’t remember what he was going to say. He practiced it so many times, and now it’s lodged, tucked away in some dark corner and he can’t shake it loose.

“You remember that time...we…” he repeats, casting a net with those first few words and trying to catch the memories. But his mind is filled with nothing but static. At this moment, walking down the hall, all he can think is… _remember that time you came to let me out of my hiding spot after thirty-six hours and twenty-one minutes?_

“Hey, it’s OK,” Amos says, like he knows that Alex’s brains are scrambled six ways to Sunday.

“Yeah,” Alex says again.

* * *

 _Eat slowly_ , he tells himself. He’s ravenous, but he needs to savor every bite. Unfortunately, the food tastes like mud.

 _No._ The casserole is _fine_ , really there’s nothing wrong with it. But Alex feels wrong sitting at this table. Like a man relying on the kindness of strangers. While Naomi’s long, elegant hands were preparing the meal, Alex was hiding. (Hiding, hiding, hiding.) It’s not his meal. He’s only a guest here, straining their hospitality.

Holden talks enthusiastically about their passengers, now safely delivered. He’s making headway, he says. Next time they pass this way, they’ll have new allies, people that can be relied upon.

Holden’s gaze slides right past Alex as he talks. Alex tries to meet his eyes, to hold the man’s attention, but it’s as if Jim doesn’t actually see him. And Alex is left to wonder how he could possibly be the impetus for all the Captain’s grand plans to change the galaxy— _We’re doing this for_ you _, Alex_ —and at the same time not exist at all?

Naomi is the opposite. Her gaze lingers. Her eyes are too dark, too knowing, taking in all of him and leaving nothing hidden in the shadows. If she would only look at him like that in small doses, like breaking off the corner of a super-rich chocolate bar, savoring the sweetness and then tucking the rest away for later—but she turns the full force of her attention on him all at once and he can’t help but recoil.

Amos looks. Or doesn’t look. It’s no different than it ever was. If Alex could choke out a story, or a joke, Amos would probably look at him, politely interested, until someone else said something that annoyed or amused him and drew his attention away.

But Alex can’t think.

Now that he’s here, he can’t come up with one goddamned thing to say. It used to be so easy.

So he puts food in his mouth and tries not to gag—and he struggles to hear his crew talking over the buzzing mosquito in his ear that insists: _Enjoy this, Kamal, ’cause it’ll all be over real damn soon._

“—right, Alex?”

He blinks, his fork halfway to his mouth. He doesn’t even know who spoke, so he looks at each of them blankly, hoping for a cue.

“Don’t bring him into it,” Holden growls. He glances covertly at Alex and then looks away after their eyes meet.

“Don’t bring me”—Alex clears his throat hard—“into what, Cap?”

Naomi gives Holden an aggrieved look.

Are they bickering? But when did that shit start? Was it going on this whole time? He hasn’t been listening. No, it isn’t that. He hasn’t been _hearing_. It’s different. He’s been staring at them, watching each of his crewmates in turn, like he was viewing a soap opera on his hand terminal, set to mute. He knows how they think, has heard all their opinions a dozen times over, but he still can’t follow the narrative.

Was it like this the last time he had to hide between the hulls? Nah… He feels like last time his meal was delicious and the company amiable. He’d swear he talked then... and even laughed a little.

But maybe he made that up.

Maybe he’s thinking about the time before that, or the one before that even.

Alex takes a deep breath, hates that it comes back out riding a shudder.

He definitely bounced back faster last time. Maybe he wasn’t right as rain, but he was _better_. More...normal.

And shit, he’s done it again, turned off his ears when they were talking. Fighting? _Fighting_. Keep up, Kamal.

“—didn’t even bother to consult me.”

“I didn’t realize you were vetting who I talk to.”

“Not _who you talk to,_ Jim,” she snaps. “Who you _bring on board the ship._ We only had six hours to get Alex suited up and hidden! If you’d cut that any closer I wouldn’t have had time to run the full diagnostics on the EVA.”

“It was fine. The intel was good. He could have stayed in his cabin even and it would have been OK.”

“I could have stayed in my cabin?” His voice is barely audible.

“But we didn’t know that at the time. We _still_ don’t know that. These U.N. spies mean business, and with you painting a target on our back—”

“What would you rather I do? Drag Alex to the EMSO? I’m doing this for him. Everything I’m doing, I’m doing for him!”

“I could have stayed in my own cabin?”

“You saw when happened to the _Peregrine_.”

“ _Peregrine_ was smuggling a whole group of MXs. We’ve only got the one. The Marino twins turned out to be alright.”

“‘Turned out to,’” Naomi says darkly,  “What happens next time?”

“We need allies to dismantle this thing!”

“Avasarala was our ally and you alienated her!”

“Avasarala isn’t moving _fast enough_.”

“ _I could have stayed in my own goddamn cabin?!”_ He doesn’t mean to shout. He barely notices the strain on his vocal cords or the way his ears start to ring, but the still silence that falls afterward is sweet. “I could have been in my own goddamn cabin with light and sound and air?! With entertainment?! I could have moved more than a few centimeters at a time without worrying I was going to get us all caught?! I could have slept stretched out in a bed? I could have—?!”

Now that he’s yelling, he wants to yell forever. He wants to let his voice ring out across the entire ship. _Goddammit, listen to me!_

He feels a sudden weight and looks down to see Amos’ giant palm covering his hand.

The tap runs dry.

All the sound and fury comes screeching to a stop.

He just stares at that hand, large, heavy, bruised and marked with dozens of little scars. The nails are short and dirty. The first two fingers look like they were broken at one point and not set quite right. There’s a strange, faded symbol he doesn't recognize tattooed on the second knuckle of the middle finger.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, “feelin’ a bit...”

_Off._

Amos squeezes, trying to what? Ground him? Silence him?

He shoves his plate back and stands up.

* * *

This cabin has been his home for years, he knows it intimately. But tonight, instead of the gentle embrace of a lover, the gel-filled bunk is awkward and stiff, like the gel’s been frozen and is only just beginning to thaw. He turns in small degrees, chasing comfort.

He tries for fifteen unsuccessful minutes to sleep. Then fifteen more. Then another fifteen after that. He’s acutely aware of time now, can feel the moments ticking away. He can hear them, Christ, he can even smell them.

Or maybe that’s just his bunk.

He laughs, mirthlessly, and is deeply unsettled by the way the sound breaks the stillness of the room.

He needs sleep, but it won’t come.

So Alex pulls himself out of bed. He’ll head to the pilot’s deck. He’ll ease himself into his chair. He’ll sleep there, or he won’t, but he’ll feel better.

Alex just wants to be OK.

That chair is the only place on the ship where he’s really comfortable, even when he’s alone. See, there’s piloting, and there’s everything else. He’s not Alex Kamal, Martian Expatriate. No, sir, no MX. He’s Alex Kamal, pilot. Alex Kamal, pilot, never hid in the hulls for anything. Never crept under the flooring, never cowered under his bunk while allies—goddamn potential _allies_ —roamed the ship.

He wants to be Alex Kamal, pilot.

On his way to the lift he overhears Naomi and Holden having sex.

It’s an accident, of course. He wouldn’t have just stood at their door listening to their low moans and grunts. But the sounds of their passion slow his pace, even as his cheeks heat up. It’s not for any perverse voyeuristic thrill.

He’s struck dumb by… intimacy.

Alex is hard up for it, sure. It had been a while for him _before_ the Sponsorship Program was announced. Now, it’s been over a year. That’s too damn long for a man to sustain on nothing but his hand. To make matters worse, the whole time he was in his EVA suit he could feel the gentle pressure of the condom-catheter around his dick, barely there but, in the silence, enough to draw his attention circling back time and again.

If Alex could get laid right now...just once...he’s damn sure he could tuck it away in his memory, folded neat and warm, and it’d be enough to tide him over till the end of this mess. Hell, even if someone would just _touch him_. Trailing hands. A warm, soft mouth.

He thinks about Amos’ hand on his.

Before that, when was the last time someone even touched him? He can’t remember, but if Naomi walked up and gave him one of those gentle, ‘I see you’ hugs of hers right now, Alex is sure he’d blow a load in his skivvies.

He swallows and forces himself to walk on by Jim and Naomi’s door.

When he rounds the corner, Amos is there, headed toward him.

“Naomi and Jim are having sex,” he blurts out and the slight flush in his cheeks is stoked up to a humiliated blaze. “I...I mean, fair warnin’, friend.”

“They’re always having sex,” Amos says, unperturbed. “I can hear them from my room every night. Fucking rabbits.”

“Oh.”

“You listen in?”

“What! No! Of course not…”

Amos raises an eyebrow at him. _Sure, brother._

“I...I just overheard. I didn’t stand there. Not...long.” He fidgets under the weight of Amos’ gaze and wants the man to walk on by. “It’s been a while for me. Obviously. Not a lot of options when you can’t leave the ship.”

“Nah, s’pose not.”

“But I wasn’t perving or anything...”

“Eh.” Amos shrugs. “I do sometimes.”

“You...don’t put on headphones? Try to block it out?”

“Why would I?” he asks with a deadpan expression. “No call to turn down a free show, right?”

Later, when he’s alone in his chair on the pilot’s deck, Alex jerks off, one ear open for anyone approaching. He comes hard, thinking about Naomi and Holden’s sex noises, thinking about Amos’ hand.

* * *

What’ll become one of the worst damn decisions of Alex’s life starts a week later with two heavy fingers on his shoulder.

_Tap. Tap._

Alex looks up at Amos who looms over him. He reads so much in the man’s inkblot expression. There’s nothing really _there_ , but Alex sees a whole galaxy of meaning, and _understands_ on some ass-backward fundamental level. Understands what Amos is asking. What he’s _offering_.

He nods. _Yes_. _Yes,_ please _. God, please_.

He watches Amos leave.

Alex doesn’t hesitate, he _waits_. There’s a big damn difference. He’s eager, but he ain’t gonna just jump out of his chair and follow like a hungry puppy. So he gives it a minute.

Then two.

And then he follows Amos to Engineering.

<<< >>>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so so much for reading!


	4. Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I know I said I would post both ch04 and ch05 at the same time… but ch04 turned into its own beast and ch05 is a special kinda somethin', so since I finished up edits on ch04 today, I've decided to go ahead and update. (Please forgive me for making y’all wait!) 
> 
> Also a HUGE THANK YOU to everyone who has read, commented, kudo'd, bookmarked, subscribed, or otherwise interacted with this story so far. I'm **honored**.

**-THEN-**

 

The crew is all smiles and jokes as they prepare to leave the Roci and deliver the cargo to their current contract, a family-owned shipping concern.

Titania is only the second port they’ve landed in since the beginning of the whole Sponsorship shit-show, and Alex is eager to disembark. Technically, he _could_ have walked around as a free man when they stopped on Ceres. Back then he’d still had some time to register with the EMSO, but there were dark rumors about disappearances, kidnappings. So he’d stayed behind and hung out, just him and his favorite gal, _Rocinante_.

As of yesterday, the Sponsorship Program is six weeks old, which is a strange way to think about a human rights travesty: it’s not an infant. By now, all the MXs oughta be good little RMEs. And any Martian off-worlder too damn stupid—or stubborn—to register is a target. A prize to be hunted and captured and turned in by Belters for a reward...or collected by an Earther as a possession.

He should be more nervous, leaving the ship. But this is _Titania_ , and there isn’t a helluva lot here. A science station and several dozen businesses grown up like grass through the cracks in the pavement, filling the needs of the scientists, administrators, and their families. But there are a couple of bars, a good crop of pretty local ladies, and no Earth-Mars Sponsor Office. That’s all Alex needs.

He’s packing a bag for a night on the station when Naomi says over the comm, “Bad news, Alex.”

In that moment he _knows_. And goddammit, _no!_

Alex shakes his head in disbelief, cursing under his breath before responding. “Nuh-uh, XO. Gonna need you to belay that bad news. It ain’t welcome here.”

“Chatter says there’s a U.N.N. ship scheduled to land within the next two hours.”

“Well, that’s two hours I can be out and about and breathing a whole different system of recycled air.”

There’s a long pause.

“I could be wholly inconspicuous,” he says in affected tones—he’s been practicing an Earther accent—and Naomi snorts over the comm, but as the quiet descends again, he has a feeling it’s a no-go.. Alex lets out a long, low groan. “Okay,” he finally says, and then again, “Okay. So, I’ll have the ship all to myself while y’all go off and deliver the goods.”

“I’m sorry, Alex.”

“Nah,” he says, his frustration a low undercurrent. He’s antsy as all get out, but he’ll find a way to make his own fun. “Next port, right?”

When they all gather at the airlock, Alex holds up his hands before anyone can say _I’m sorry, Alex_ , again. It’s no fault of theirs that the whole damn galaxy has lost its mind.

“I expect you guys to have a miserable time without me,” he tells them with a smile. It’s not completely genuine, but it’ll do.

Holden lays his hand on Alex’s shoulder, but it feels wrong, like he’s trying too hard to emulate Naomi’s natural empathy, and that’s worse than another lame apology. “Anything we can bring you, Alex? You name it, and if it’ll fit in the hold, it’s yours.”

“Whiskey,” Alex answers automatically. “That’d hit the spot. And some company. Eventually, time comes, a man and his hand start to get a little sick of each other.”

“If you needed another hand, brother, all you had to do was ask,” Amos jokes, because that’s what they do, they joke. They joke to break the tension, to distract themselves from every awful thing that’s happened since the end of the war. But the tension’s getting to be thick as the ice on Ganymede, and jokes aren’t exactly doing the trick anymore.

But they keep on trying.

“Shucks, Amos, awful kind of you to offer.” This grin feels more real, like maybe the artifice is in the parts per million. These days Amos is the one most likely to get a laugh out of Alex. There’s something about the man. He can go hours in dead silence, and then he opens his mouth and something ridiculous and wonderful comes out. It never fails to get a chuckle out of Alex. “But you’ve got the wrong plumbing, friend. Plus, if you were here givin’ me the time, you couldn’t be out there getting me some of that good whiskey.”

The momentary weight of Amos’s hand on his shoulder, there and then gone, carries all the friendship and comfort that was missing from Holden’s touch.

Jim and Naomi, and, hell, even Amos, they’re all taking a huge risk, hiding Alex like they are. He knows that. He’s seen the feeds. He knows there are Belter bounty hunters out there, all kitted out and ready to fly. There’s at least half a dozen different shows following hunters on the prowl. Some of them are fake as hell, full of the drama and in-fighting of ‘reality’ broadcast, but others are disturbingly real. Reminds Alex, that could be him, dead-eyed, drugged, and being hauled to the EMSO.

Naomi grins at him, “We’ll hook you up with some whiskey. Don’t worry.”

But not the _company_.

* * *

For a while Alex just putters around the ship. It feels a little like staying home sick from school and having free run of the house. Engineering, Ops, the Med Bay, both crew decks, the galley, they’re all his.

He spends some time in the galley, making a banana pudding. No idea why, he’s just craving pud and it makes him grin to think that the rest of the crew will come back to dessert. Pretty damn domestic.

None of the ingredients are real, but that don’t matter. He swipes his finger through the mixing bowl after he’s poured the pudding over the wafers and ‘banana slices,’ and decides it’s pretty darn good.

He wanders down to his bunk and curls up with a bulb of hot cocoa to watch old noir vids on his hand terminal. But he can only pretend for so long. With a bit of shame, Alex begins to skim around the local feeds. Specifically, what’s new on the illicit channels.

A lot of the previews show the same old pornography: heavily-made-up women in bits of lace or leather that cover exactly nothing, bright lights, _interesting_ camera angles and close-ups, and more unnecessary grunts and moans than an Earther tennis match.

He considers if he wants to watch something amateur for free, or if he really wants to put a premium charge on the Roci’s account. Then a low-rent feed called _Trinkets and Toys_ catches his attention.

The white ceramic collar marks the Martian woman as an RME, and Alex is immediately on edge. She’s turned toward the camera and half-heartedly sways to bass-heavy music that distorts over the feed. Her face is lowered, hair sweeping back and forth as she moves. It’s not the coy teasing of an empowered (and union-protected) sex worker. She hugs herself weakly, only half-covering her exposed breasts, and when she turns her head, Alex can see thick tracks of mascara like burnt rubber down her cheeks. Despite her silent tears, her expression is stoic.

He doesn’t realize he’s touching the screen until it blurs slightly under his fingertips.

“What have they done to you, honey?” he murmurs, and with a shudder, he closes the feed.

He should have known people’d start using the Program for sex. The U.N. doesn’t give a damn what happens to the Martians.

Who was that gal before she was a cam-star? Before she was a… _trinket_?

He almost misses the message—text only—that comes through. It’s from Holden.

_Get us ready to fly._

The crew doesn’t so much return to the Roci, as storm the the ship like an invading army, voices raised, panicked.

“We need a getaway?” Alex asks over the comm as he races toward the pilot’s deck. He climbs into his chair, straps himself in. He takes one deep breath and lets it out before saying, “Tell me what you need, Captain.”

There’s no answer to his question, but he can hear muffled voices as Holden crashes his way up to the Ops deck. His harness feels too snug, but he pulls the straps nervously tighter.

“—think you can hack the feed before they scrub it?”

“Of course,” Naomi’s reply is sharp and close, “but it’s going to take time.”

“Then get on it. Amos, you’d better—”

The big man’s heavy-booted feet make a helluva racket as he paces back and forth like an animal in too small a cage. A meaty thump reverberates through the inner hull, and Alex can see it in his mind’s eye. Amos’ bleeding knuckles and the implacable wall that took his abuse without complaint.

Jim’s voice returns, softer, but with an unmistakable air of command. “...you’d better check that out with the auto-doc and then make sure everything’s shipshape in the cargo hold. Check in when that’s done and you’re in Engineering.

“What’s going on?” Alex asks slowly, over the crew channel. He needs direction. He needs orders. He needs _answers_. “They find us out?”

“It was a massacre.” Holden says to Naomi, disregarding Alex’s queries. “I should have…” He trails off.

“You couldn’t do anything.” Naomi’s tone hovers somewhere between understanding and exasperated. “Not then. You would have gotten yourself—and probably the rest of us—killed if you’d tried to intervene.”

“ _What_ was a massacre?!” Alex, frustrated, shouts toward the ladder down to the Ops deck.

There’s a long pause, as if both are surprised by the sound of his voice. As if they’d forgotten he was there.

Aside, to Naomi, Jim says, “Vids?” then, after she makes a noise of agreement, he climbs halfway up the ladder, popping his head up. He looks haggard, exhausted. “They killed a bunch of RMEs in a— a brothel. Just mowed them all down.”

“Who did?” Alex tries again. “ _What happened_?”

“I can’t—” Holden starts, “I’ll explain it all to you later, Alex. I promise. Hell, you can see for yourself if Naomi gets us that dump of the feeds. Right now, I need to…” Holden trails off and disappears back down the shaft.

Alex sinks deeper into his chair, trying to find his center. Everything always makes a bit more sense here. And perfect clarity will come when he flies. If only they’d give him the go ahead. But Naomi needs time because there was a...massacre. Of RMEs. In a brothel.

He starts inputting flight plans, but he’s too quick, too efficient, and it only distracts him temporarily. So then he orchestrates false flight plans, imagining that whatever happened down there, they might need to fool someone. That devolves into fantasy.

He mentally plots a course to Mars.

He’d take them all somewhere that they can walk around together openly. He’d show off his old haunts, give them a proper tour of the Mariner Valley. They’d get into trouble, laugh it off, look up Bobbie and see if they could find even more mischief. The thought of it is comforting and familiar. It’s almost enough.

At some point, Alex tries to mirror Naomi’s screen, impatient for answers, but only Holden has those permissions and the attempt just pisses Naomi off.

“Mind telling me what the hell you’re doing, Alex?” she asks over the comm half a second after he gets the error message.

“Sorry XO,” he replies sheepishly. “Just trying to figure out what’s going on.”

“Maybe try using your words next time.” The line goes dead.

As if he hasn’t.

At this point, Amos is probably breaking things he’ll then have to fix later once he’s cooled down enough. Even so, he’s Alex’s best chance of getting information right now. After calls to Engineering and the Med Bay go unanswered, he opens a line to the comm panel in the cargo hold. He can hear the big man slamming things around, growling, and generally menacing a room full of inanimate objects.

“Amos?” His voice is steady and calm in the face of Amos’ violence.

In reply, he gets the most impressive string of obscenities he’s heard since he was active duty with the MCRN.

“Cap said it was a massacre,” Alex says. “Wouldn’t tell me anything else.”

“No lie,” he growls in response.

Alex waits, afraid that if he speaks Amos will stop talking.

“They were having some kind of fucking _auction_.” Amos’s tone scares Alex a little. He’s only heard it a couple of times, but it’s never meant anything good. Dark and ice-cold, an emotionless resonance belying the imminent threat of violence. “All of ’em MXs, collared, sponsored. Some of ’em had their babies with them. Kids.”

“I thought all Martian children under sixteen--”

“Goddamn kids, Alex. With their parents being rented out to the highest bidders right in front of them.”

Alex wouldn’t call it a ‘soft spot’ Amos has for children. More like a trigger, or a blasting cap.

“Did you…?” He can’t quite get the words out.

“Didn’t get the chance. Before I could do anything, the protesters outside busted the doors in. It got crowded and confused in a hurry. All of sudden there’s Pinkwater goons in full riot gear mowing people down.”

“How’d you get out?”

“Don’t exactly remember. Naomi was shouting and dragging us toward the exit. I think she yanked our asses out the back.”

“Shit…” Alex says, his throat too tight to swallow. “I…” He clamps his mouth shut. There’s nothing to say. Not a goddamn thing. So he opts for, “Thanks.”

“Got it,” Naomi’s voice comes over the crew channel, and at first he thinks she’s talking to him. “They were scrubbing as I worked, but I got the bulk of it.”

“Good work, Naomi. Mr. Kamal, get us the hell out of here,” Holden says.

“Solid copy,” he replies, and signals Control before anyone can change their minds. He wants off Titania. He wants to be flying.

Seconds tick by. They get shifted to stand-by.

The footage Naomi captured plays on his hand terminal. He watches. It makes him ill. He waits. It loops.

“Alex?” Holden asks.

“Waiting for the go-ahead to launch, Cap,” he says. “You want to cut and run?”

Holden is silent for a long minute. “Give them five minutes. Any longer, or anything smells funny, you blow the docking clamps and get us the hell out of here.”

Alex watches a small girl fall under a hail of bullets. He watches people fleeing for their lives, trampling their fallen comrades. He waits for the green light.

The footage repeats again and Alex begins to drift, detached from the horror, the screaming voices he can only hear in his mind, because the recording has no sound. From a long way off, he can hear his voice, calm as the silence of space. “Hey folks...I made y’all some pudding.”

No one replies.

Finally, Control gives him the all-clear.  
  
They’re good to go. They’re _good_.

“We’re a go, Cap.”

He can hear Naomi from the Ops deck. Her tone is quiet, private, but it carries. “You know what will happen if you do this, right Jim?”

“I do,” Holden agrees solemnly.

“Then...okay.”

Alex pulls back on the joystick controls, his world righting itself. Everything else fades away, even the sound of the Captain’s voice as he says, “My name...is James Holden…”

<<< >>>


	5. Now

**-NOW-**

 

Alex is a ball of nervous, expectant energy. He’s a teenager high on the promise of someone other than himself touching his cock. His over-eager mind tries to lay out the scenario as he walks, but, seeing as a lot of this is new ground, his mental image is swiss cheesed.

Alex expects Amos to be waiting for him, leaning against the wall, gaze warm, maybe? Or intent at least. He’d looked so focused when he tapped Alex’s shoulder, that Alex is sure the five minutes he’s left Amos waiting have been as interminable for the mechanic as they’ve been for him.

But when he steps into Engineering, Amos is crouched under a console with the panel laying next to him and his tools on the floor.

Amos doesn’t even look up.

Alex was ready to meet his gaze head-on, because he knows he won’t be able to afterward, so he’d better do it now. Looking his friend in the eye was supposed to make the situation more casual, normalize it somehow.

Because it’s all so goddamn weird.

Alex has only ever been with women. Never gave it much thought, it’s always just felt right. But, in this moment, he’s more nervous about the fact Amos is his _friend_ than Amos is a _man_.

Christ, this is a bad idea. Maybe the heavyweight champion of bad ideas. But Alex needs…

He needs… something.

Anything.

To feel a connection.

And Amos offered.

“Are we going to do this?” Alex’s voice comes out sounding slow and lazy. It’s the way he often gets in high-stress situations. His mind might be pulling 10 G, but the rest of him becomes languid. It’s gotten him through many a firefight. It’ll get him through this, too.

Amos looks up then. Scratches his nose with the back of his hand. Frowns.

Alex shouldn’t have waited. Shouldn’t have lingered.

Amos has changed his mind.

Or maybe...

Alex had been _so certain_ what Amos had meant by that tap.

He’d been offering to help out, same as he did that day on Titania. Except that had been a joke and this was...real?

Right?

The frown says, _What do you mean, brother?_

The frown says, _What do you want?_

“Fuck.” Alex’s curses are usually more of the _goddamn_ and _bullshit_ variety, but this is a fuck of a situation. He takes a step back, thinking, that if he can just get moving, get out of the room, he can burn hard and outrun the shame he’s feeling. He’ll leave Amos staring after him in confusion and they won’t ever discuss it.

“Probably,” Amos says, slowly straightening. His knees pop as he does. Neither he nor Alex is particularly young and you can hear it in the way their joints move and settle under burn. Amos’ expression is inscrutable. He either knows, and isn’t letting on, or he’s completely in the dark… and isn’t letting on. “We doing what?”

There it is.

Alex is an idiot.

“Ah...nothing.”

Alex is just so isolated, so lonely. It’s enough to drive a man crazy, make him think crazy things—especially when Holden and Naomi are so goddamn _loud_ about the fact that they have each other and they’re doing _just fine._

“Obviously it’s not ‘nothing.’”

“I just thought you...that we…”

_Why aren’t you running, Kamal?_

Every second that passes the picture becomes clearer. That _tap-tap_ on his shoulder was a friendly hello, a _Hey there_. But he’s here and he’s flooded with adrenaline. And he needs _something_.

“Look, I know your tastes normally run to female hookers.” Alex knows he’s making a colossal mistake. But he’s in it to win it now. “And I know I’m not either of those things.”

“Ah.”

Now Amos understands. His expression is still inscrutable, though. Then he frowns, just the slightest downturn of his mouth.

And Alex laughs. He doesn’t expect it—the laughter bursts out of him and it sounds more genuine than anything has in a very long time. He scrubs both hands over his face. He laughs again. “Wow partner, I really cocked this up, didn’t I?”

He should be humiliated.

He should be running.

He mistook a friendly tap on the shoulder for _Do you want to get busy in Engineering?_ Jesus H. Christ, his brain is fried.

“Would you be surprised if I told you this ain’t the first—or the most embarrassing—time this has happened to me?”

Amos cocks an eyebrow. “You mean that thing when you were a kid?”

Once, when Alex was still a teenager, he’d completely misread the signals he was picking up from his date and waited a nervous hour on his bed in nothing but his underwear before realizing she’d long since gone home.

“Suppose I already told you that one.” In truth, Alex has told Amos _a lot_ over the years. The bulk of his life’s stories, maybe. Amos makes it easy, and Alex has always enjoyed a good ramble. “Er, I’ll be honest, Ames, I’m thinkin’ about going for broke here.”

There’s so much he should say. How Amos squeezing his hand has stayed with him, how he needs that contact like Jim needs coffee and everyone else needs oxygen. How he wants Amos to press against him and be the bond that holds all the molecules in his body together, and keeps them from flying away, one by one. “You said once you could help me out.”

Sure, he’d said it, but it had been a joke. Alex had laughed. Amos had smiled. That’s how jokes work.

“ _Could you_...I mean…?”

“’Course,” Amos says and Alex blinks, surprised despite everything. Amos’ troubled look has transformed into something calm and friendly. His eyes are unclouded. Alex might as well have asked if Amos could check the light fixture in the head. It’s a non-issue.

“It’s just...it’s been so long and I…”

_Am so lonely._

“You don’t need to explain, brother,” Amos says. “I got you.”

_I got you._

“You don’t _have_ to,” Alex says quietly, because he needs to say it. In his bones he knows that Amos Burton doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to. But he’s also a man that sees a problem, and fixes it. Alex has a problem. Alex _is_ the problem. Amos will fix it.

“Sure I do,” he says, and moves right into Alex’s space in two long strides. “It’s just a handjob, right?”

_Just. Only. No more than._

He doesn’t know if he should kiss Amos. These things usually start with kissing, right?

But then Amos reaches out to help with the zipper of his jumpsuit and Alex automatically leans in, craving contact, desperate to be touched. Instead, Amos manages to unzip the whole thing without touching him at all and it leaves Alex agitated and fidgeting.

“How ya want me?” he asks awkwardly.

“However.” The reply is brief, but not short.

“Gonna need a _little_ instruction,” Alex says. “Not a detailed star chart, but a trajectory at least.”

Amos considers this for a minute and then says, “You can face me. Or away. Doesn’t matter, I can reach.” He shrugs and then adds, “We’ll play it by ear.”

Amos pulls Alex’s dick free of his jumpsuit, letting it hang flaccid for a moment, eyeing it with mild curiosity. Alex’s chuckle is strained.

“Never got a good look at it before,” Amos says enigmatically.

“Well…” What’s he supposed to say? _Do you like what you see?_ Jesus Christ. This is more awkward than a middle school dance.

Amos’ fingers are rough and dry as they brush along Alex’s hardening length. Automatically he thrusts forward into Amos’ hand, letting out an embarrassing groan.

It feels so...good.

Amos strokes down the shaft and pauses, his fingers a tight circle around the base of Alex’s cock.

And then, suddenly, Amos lets go and Alex is crushed.

It’s too weird, right?

Yeah.

No.

They can’t do this.

But Amos is running a stripe up his palm with his tongue, wetting his hand. It’s...the sexiest thing Alex has seen in a dog’s age.

And it’s _Amos._

Amos’ hand. Amos’ tongue. Amos’ eyes intent and unreadable on Alex’s face.

Amos. His closest friend.

Alex gasps as he once more takes him in hand, the glide now smooth, slicked by saliva. He strokes in a tight, even motion and it feels like everything Alex never knew he wanted.

Almost.

Amos isn’t pressing against him, not leaning into him, not bonding his molecules tightly, and...

Alex _can’t_ ask for more.

His vocal cords are paralyzed.

But there’s so much he wants.

It’s all too much for him and he stumbles back, collapsing against the bulkhead.

“What’s wrong?” Amos asks, concerned, but Alex shakes his head, turning away. Hiding. Like a coward.

Then the hand is back. Fingers hold him with a delicious strength, and the grip on Alex becomes vice-like. He can almost pretend they are possessive. The strokes are hard and even and yes…

Please.

More.

He ignores the screaming, sobbing voice in the far corner of his mind that wants to be held, and focuses instead on the huge hand engulfing him. It belongs to no one. It’s just a hand, disembodied.

The pressure builds.

Alex breathes.

There is a war within him to stay focused. There’s Alex and the hand and the pleasure and the need and the longing.

The way that hand moves against him, coupled with his desperation, means he’ll come too goddamn quick. And it will be over. It’ll all be over. Christ.

“Nnn…” He groans, hypnotized by the wet sounds of stroking and the— _shitChristhell!_

More! Please! _More!_

_Good. God. Damn._

Alex spills over the hand holding him in throbbing spurts and he cries out, his body wracked with...flooded with...filled with...pleasure that burns to ash.

He chokes down a sob and gasps, startled, when the hand disappears.

His whole self unspools.

So unsatedly sated.

For a moment there’s only the sound of his own heartbeat ringing in his ears.

“You all right?” Amos asks softly, his breath warm against the side of Alex’s face.

That’s right. Amos is here.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Um.” He clears his throat as he cleans himself up with the greasy rag Amos hands him, and quickly tucks himself back into his jumpsuit. “Thank you.”

And then something occurs to him. When someone does you a solid, there’s a right way and a wrong way to show your gratitude. “I can help you out, too,” Alex says, turning back around. He eyes the large bulge tenting Amos’s trousers. He’s not sure he’d actually be any good at it. He’ll damn sure try, though. It’s just the neighborly thing to do.

And…

A memory comes to him, suddenly. One that might oughta be sexy, but is tender as a bruise, instead. Talissa, on her knees in front of him, giving him pleasure. And he’d reached down to stroke a finger along her cheek. Her eyes were so bright, and she’d smiled at him and he caught a curl of her hair before closing his eyes and losing himself completely.

And he thinks…

If he got down on his knees, would Amos actually touch him then?

If he took Amos in his mouth, would the big man touch his face? Card heavy fingers through Alex’s hair?

He’s never even considered giving another fella head before. If it’d get him what he needs right now though, nothing in the galaxy could stop him. He tries not to look desperate. He’s damn sure he fails at that.

“Nah,” Amos finally says, shamelessly adjusting himself. “I’ll rub one out later. Don’t worry about it, brother.”

Alex smiles tightly, tips his imaginary hat, and gets the hell out of Engineering.

The Roci is half a stranger in that moment, as if he’s studied her schematics but never been on board. He passes uniform doors and passageways. The edges of his vision blur.

Alex stumbles on, his feet following a path unknown to him. He doesn’t find anything familiar, not his bunk, or the galley, or his couch on the pilot’s deck.

None of the old haunts, the places where he’s still able to find a moment of peace and calm in the middle of all the horror.

He leaves them all behind and goes into the Cargo Bay.

Once the door is shut and sealed behind him, he cuts the lights. The glow of the red LEDs illuminates the floor, but the otherwise oppressive darkness feels safe. Alex takes a moment to breathe it in like oxygen, to let it consume and surround him. Then he tilts his head back, looking up into the inky blackness and letting himself feel small compared to the void.

They’re hauling parts to Tycho and supplies to _Lilliput’s Revenge_ , an ugly-ass freighter crewed by a group of rebels that Holden and Naomi met with some months back. They haven’t risked Alex meeting the crew, each encounter leading to a _Maybe next time_ … And _Too dangerous_ … He long since stopped caring.

A bubble of laughter rises up in the back of his throat.

He tries to swallow it down, but he fails and the laughter bursts out of him. It’s hollow and it echoes throughout the high-ceilinged room.

Once his desperate laughter fades, Alex starts walking the perimeter.

Searching.

He doesn’t frequent the Cargo Bay, not anymore. He’s useless unloading at ports, they can’t risk him being seen, and there’s nothing down here to interest him. Except...

It only takes him a few minutes to find what he’s looking for. The ladder that will lead him to the top of a tower of industrial shelves loaded with the raw materials and parts they need for emergency repairs. As he climbs, he reaches out periodically to test that the netting holding everything in place is secure.

Near the top, Alex finds a loose bit of the cargo web and he climbs onto the shelf, pushing his way through the gap, letting the tight space hug him in its embrace.

If they didn’t properly strap this shit in, high-G maneuvers could cause an avalanche. He’d die instantly under its weight.

And somehow it doesn’t scare him.

Because in this narrow space, it almost feels like he’s getting the hug he’s been craving for the last seven months.

* * *

When he wakes, Alex feels as if all the marrow has been stripped from his bones.

He lays in the dark, enjoys the thrust gravity, and the way the cargo web cradles him.

And he remembers.

Usually after getting some, Alex just wants it more. He becomes a perpetual motion machine of need. _Get off, get off, get off, get off, partner_. It’s only when he’s gone a couple of weeks without that he can trick himself back into thinking the drought is okay, that he doesn’t _really_ need it.

He’s made it through the last year that way.

But last night he got some.

Amos helped him out.

Amos gave him a taste of what he needs.

So he’d expect to be hard as a rock.

He’d even expect to want to seek out Amos again, an impulse he knows he’ll need to control moving forward. A one-off thing is fine, but he doesn’t want to trouble Amos with every stubborn boner he gets.

He didn’t expect to wake up flaccid, feeling like desire has been surgically removed from him.

Slipping a hand into his jumpsuit, Alex experimentally tugs on his cock, just to see what’ll happen.

The sensation leaves him feeling empty and vast.

<<< >>>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm genuinely sorry, Alex.


	6. Then pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this chapter got to be so large I ended up splitting it into two. I'm hoping to post the second half sometime this week!
> 
> Also, foul-mouthed Avasarala is one of the most incredible characters James S.A. Corey ever wrote. *toasts the woman of the hour*
> 
> And finally, enjoy my mix of novel-based and show-based Lang Belta (Belter Creole).

**-THEN- (pt. 1)**

 

Alex rubs his temples and pops two tabs into his mouth, dry-swallowing them. He sighs, hoping that _this time_ the pills will work, and then circles back to where he’s laid his hand terminal on his crash couch. He glances at it and, seeing Holden’s tired, earnest face, looks away.

 _“_ — _urge you_ all _to_ resist _. It’s so easy to pretend none of this is happening, to hide behind a screen of feigned ignorance. The truth is, this horror_ won’t _end on its own. It will continue until we stand together, until we speak with one voice and say,_ ‘No more.’ _Even if I’d been foolish enough to believe that people in the Sponsorship Program were being treated fairly, humanely... after witnessing the atrocities on Titania firsthand_ — _”_

Alex has lost count how many times he’s viewed Jim’s broadcast and the accompanying footage of the Titania masacre.

Twenty? Thirty? It could have been a thousand. He’s got it playing on a loop. He’ll watch it three times in a row, walk away, and come back to it later with fresh eyes. Each time, he listens to Holden’s voice, desperately hoping that _this time_ , his name won’t come out of the man’s mouth.

But there it is, clear as a bell, for all the galaxy to hear.

 _“—and that means we will continue to_ refuse _to yield our crewmate to the EMSO. Alex Kamal is the best damn pilot I’ve ever known and—”_

He flicks the broadcast off and sinks down on the edge of his bunk. His head is pounding like the beat in a Bangra club, a brutal bastard of a headache that started in yesterday after the crew got back to the Roci. If only he could go on the juice. It’d zap the headache, but eventually the comedown would make things a whole helluva lot worse. His visit to the auto-doc was a disappointment. He wants to be knocked on his ass, but all it gave him were these weak-ass anti-inflammatories.

“You there, Alex?”

It’s Holden’s voice again, but this time it’s coming from the wall panel, not his hand terminal. Alex rests his elbows on his knees for a moment and tries to decide whether he really wants to get up and answer. About now, Alex’d as soon kick his captain in the teeth as talk to him.

Maybe that ain’t fair, considering Jim basically stood up on the galactic stage and said, _I value this fella right here and you U.N. bastards aren’t gonna take him_ … but without the drawl.

Still and all, he didn’t bother to include Alex in his planning. Well, Hell, maybe Alex didn’t want to become a damn MX poster boy. But there’s Jim, making a big show of it. _Look at this Martian, he’s ours and you’re not gonna get him._

The whole mess scares Alex, because, boy howdy the U.N.N. is gonna give it a try.

“Alex?” Holden asks again, and Alex, squinting to see through the dull light in his room, stands up and walks over to the comm. He leans his shoulder against it.

“What can I do you for, Cap?”

“Avasarala sent a response to the broadcast.”

“To me?”

“To...me. But she says we should all watch.”

“You reckon it’s too much to hope she’s calling to say your message inspired a change’a heart within the U.N. and Sponsorship is dead? Martians are free to set foot off Mars without their slave masters?”

Holden is silent for a moment. His answering chuckle is weak. “I wouldn’t hold your breath, pal.”

* * *

 _“Holden, were you dropped on your fucking head as an infant?”_ Avasarala glares out from the monitor. _“It won’t change what I am about to say, but it would explain quite a lot about you. What you have done is_ beyond irresponsible _, and this is_ you _we are talking about. You, who once started a war with thirty seconds of pirate video broadcast. You, who are hell-bent on undermining my every fucking effort to fix this goddamn circle jerk.”_

Alex can’t help it, he throws back his head and laughs. It earns him a sour look from Holden. Amos tosses him a grin from behind Jim’s back, but Naomi keeps her face pointedly neutral.

The message from Avasarala runs for about five minutes of angry cursing and stern lecture. Alex is pretty sure she wanted the Roci crew to watch it together, just to shame Holden that much more.

 _“_ — _did you even think to_ ask _if you had any fucking allies within the U.N.? You are as pig-headed as the idiots who came up with this whole clusterfuck of an initiative in the first place. I cannot protect you, Holden, not now that you’ve showed your delicate pink asshole to the galaxy and invited every upright prick who could hear your voice to come and take a turn. If you were going to volunteer to be gang-fucked, you should have at least given me advance notice, so I could make a little pocket money selling tickets. I can’t save you from your own chronic stupidity.”_ She pauses and blinks at him, as if she expects Jim to respond. After a long minute, she draws in a deep breath, the tension easing just a little.

 _“To the rest of the crew of the_ Rocinante, _I would say that I am sorry for the hardship you are all sure to face in light of Holden’s broadcast, but you willingly follow the dumbass and so you reap what you sow.”_ She straightens her already straight shoulders and cocks one dark brow.

 _“I could be home playing with my precious grandchildren, but I will be here, until God-knows-when, cleaning up yet another fucking Holden-mess. Do you know the ridiculous amount of paperwork that goes into these official sanctions? Sanctions that will make life so much more difficult for your allies. Do you know how much of a fucking_ headache this is? _I am doing everything I can to dismantle the Program. Politics takes_ time _, and you just made my job a hundred times more difficult. Officially, I have to respond. You’re on your own. And don’t worry, I will make certain that Bobbie knows that what comes next is entirely your fault.”_

“Bobbie?” Alex asks with a raised eyebrow, before a stone-faced Holden flips over to the U.N. broadcast.

There is Avasarala, looking fierce as fire in an orange sari. Towering over her, is the massive Bobbie Draper, hands folded behind her back, her square jaw set; the white collar identifying a sponsored Martian around her neck.

Seeing Bobbie collared is enough to make Alex sick to his stomach. He has to force himself to breathe. This is _Bobbie_. Fierce, fearless, unbeatable Bobbie. Bobbie, who even _Amos_ is a little bit afraid of. Bobbie, who already struggles with her past with the U.N.

She looks like a prize fish Avasarala caught, hanging on the line for everyone to see.

When Avasarala speaks, her words are sharp as knives, her expression stern. “I am here today to provide assurances to you all that the U.N. is taking swift measures against Pinkwater Security. Their actions during the tragic incident on Titania were utterly inexcusable, and an organization whose internal culture would permit or condone such horrors cannot be allowed to carry on,” she says in stern tones. Her lips purse in a frown, the wrinkles around her mouth accentuated. “I still believe in the vision of the architects of the Martian Sponsorship Program. Across the solar system, Martian Expatriates and their Sponsors are sharing a mutually beneficial relationship that—”

“Bobbie is an RME,” Alex says, mouth finally catching up with his brain. The words come out on a whisper. He studies Bobbie’s face, trying to guess what’s going through her head.

“—Roberta Draper, former Gunnery Sergeant of the 2nd Marine Expeditionary Force. Sponsoring Bobbie has been my pleasure and—”

Alex’s frown seems to grow deeper with every word, until the roots of it are curling around his toes and anchoring him to the floor. Then the transmission is interrupted by an automated message from the ship. A warning blares out.

He glances at his hand terminal and back to the broadcast, trapped for one interminable moment by the utter misery in Bobbie’s eyes.

And then he is running, stumbling, gasping for breath, and frantically trying to route the ship’s controls through his terminal.

When Alex sends a pattern of bursts to the maneuvering thrusters, changing the ship’s course without killing the ⅓ g burn they’re under, the shifting gravity throws him off his feet and he can hear shouts and curses echoing throughout the ship.  

“You’re gonna want to strap in, folks,” he says over the crew channel. “We’re gettin’ lit up by two—make that three—bogeys.”

Holden barks, “Alex, weapons.”

“Solid copy, Cap. Bringing weapon systems online.”

“Where the hell did they all come from?” Naomi’s voice is taut with adrenaline.

“Don’t know,” Holden says and Alex hooks an arm through the lift and rides it up. He watches on his hand terminal as the captain marks targets and begins to prepare firing solutions.

“Looks like two Belters and a U.N.N. ship,” Naomi says.

“And one of them just opened their tubes,” Alex says. He leaps off the lift and throws himself into his chair.

“To everyone who’s just shown up for this surprise party,” Holden says over a general short-range broadcast. “What’s the occasion?”

 _“James Holden_.” The reply from the U.N.N. is instantaneous. “This is Captain Castillo of the U.N.N. _Songbird_. Under the authority of the U.N. and the EMSO, you will power down your weapons and prepare to be boarded.”

“ _Oi, this our claim!_ ” Comes a Belter reply, the voice thickly accented and angry. And then in a mockingly affected tone, the Belter captain says, “We. Were here. First. _Passa, paxoníseki?_ ”

“ _You have no authority here,”_ Castillo says. _“Stand down.”_

“ _No way, Pampaw. Fair run on da duster. Bounty hunters’ rights._ ”

“The first Belter ship just lit up the _Songbird_ ,” Holden says, “The second ship is quiet, I don’t like that. Naomi, can you get me IDs on them? Alex, what’s the hold-up on the weapons?”

“Yeah, Hoss, I’m not too sure. I’m showing all green here, but the board’s totally unresponsive.”

“Amos, what the fuck’s wrong with my guns?”

“Not a goddamn thing, Cap.” Amos replies cheerily. “Better buy me five minutes or so to do a full reboot of the weapons system, all the same.”

“Only finding an ID on one, Jim,” Naomi says. “The chatty one reads unregistered. The other is the _Ctenizidae_.”

“Alex, you’d better have a good idea, or we’re gonna be sucking vacuum pretty quick here.”

Alex frowns, studying his displays. “Calling it a plan’d be awful generous, Captain, but I reckon I got an angle. Anyone not strapped down in 10 will be feeling it in the morning.”

“Roger, Alex. No time for suits, people, so I’m locking down all the hatches.” Jim’s voice is strained, and Alex can hear him for a moment as he tries to break back into the stream of bickering going on over the local ship-to-ship. Then the hatch to the lower decks hisses shut and it’s just him and the Roci.

“Here comes the juice, folks.” Seconds after the needles dump their payload into his bloodstream, Alex banks hard left, pointing the Roci’s nose straight down the middle between the two Belter ships. “Rochambeau!” he shouts, accelerating into a hard burn.

Voices in his ears blur together with the warning alarms as the U.N.N. ship fires off a volley of missiles. Alex ignores the blurred cacophony, instead glaring down into the gap formed by the two Belter ships closing ranks.

He’s gotta shoot that gap before the Belters get nervous enough about the incoming missiles that they decide to open fire with their PDCs. If Lady Luck’s on their side today, the _Songbird_ might even be burning in hard behind them and take a hole or two off those cannons.

It’s a beautiful souffle in the making, if only he can keep the damn thing from falling flat...

<<< >>>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Feedback makes the author blush and swoon! Please consider letting me know what you think.)


	7. Then pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! Here's the second part of "Then."

**-THEN- (pt. 2)**

The next two weeks are filled wall-to-wall with firefights.

By the end, it feels like they’ve battled every person in the galaxy and their goddamn uncles, too, and that first encounter and Alex’s brilliant, skin-of-his-teeth escape is a hazy memory.

He’s tacked up a good, old-fashioned tally sheet with the number of Belter, U.N.N., Non-Military Earther, and ‘Who the Hell Even Knows?’ ship encounters next to his chair. At last update, the Belter bounty hunters were in the lead with 9. That makes the sum total: too goddamn many.

They outrun, outgun, and out-maneuver, until they can’t, and then they limp along to Tycho where Fred Johnson has promised them sanctuary—at least while they get repairs.

“Great,” Amos says. “Fred says we’ll be safe. But, how’s he gonna guarantee all fifteen thousand people on Tycho play nice?”

Alex has seen the bounty they have out on him... Fred commands loyalty, but that’s a heck of a lot of zeroes.

“There’s no EMSO on Tycho,” Naomi says, but her voice lacks conviction. “I still wouldn’t just go parading Alex around.”

“Alex, we’ll have to stash you,” Jim says tightly. He’s been even angrier than normal ever since the Roci got holed by a gauss round that took off Naomi’s toe. They can regrow it and the holes were easy enough to patch, but that’s not the point.  _ Both _ of Holden’s girls got hurt.

“Stash me?” Alex asks.

He hasn’t slept more than a couple hours here and there since the broadcast went out, and he’s in near-constant pain. The headache comes on in waves. He feels like a live wire that’s been stripped and left sparking in a puddle of water.

“Where exactly?”

Holden considers this for a moment. “Maybe one of those abandoned asteroids we’ve been meaning to scope out.”

Alex huffs a laugh. “Right now, at our top speed, that’s still the better part of a week’s burn in the wrong direction. Ain’t worth it, Hoss.”

“And neither is losing you, Mr. Kamal.”

A bit of the pisstivity he’s been feeling at Holden ebbs in the face of those words. Warms his heart. “Hide me on the ship then. No problem.”

“There will be workers in and out of here day and night,” Naomi says.

“They gonna be in my quarters?”

“I’d find a reason to check your quarters if I was after your bounty,” Amos says with a friendly grin. “I’d scour every damn inch of this ship looking for you, brother.”

They ran a drill sometime last week— _ or was it this week? All the days blur together _ —where they jammed Alex between the hulls in an EVA suit, and faked a hull breach. It’ll work if they’re suddenly boarded, maybe. Wouldn’t fool someone like Sam for a second, though.

“Then, what?”

“Well…” Naomi says, “we can always make it  _ seem _ like you left the ship. Strip your quarters bare, box up your stuff and space it with a beacon so we can pick it up later.”

“And then y’all store me in the Cargo Bay instead?”

“Somewhere up and out of the way,” Holden says. “Paper the whole thing with warning labels: radioactive, flammable, poisonous.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Not doubting or nothing, but that’s a long fucking time to be stuck in a container,” Amos says.

“Done it before,” Alex replies. “Once went into a rad shelter for—”

“I don’t like it, but it’ll have to do.” Holden’s voice is firm and decisive, but his look is still sympathetic, and Alex turns away. “You sure you’ll be alright?”

“Sure as shit,” he says. They’ve got to get their girl back in peak condition, whatever it takes. “But if it’s fine by all of y’all, right now I’m gonna go make sure we’re still flying in the right direction and then I’m gonna take me a nap.”

* * *

The container ain’t so bad.

It’s tall enough for him to stand up in and pace, barefooted, if he feels like it. Not quite wide enough to stretch all the way out when he’s laying down, but comfortable enough. He’ll get most of his nutrition through a tube, and he still has to use the EVA suit in the corner to take a piss, and despite the disguised air holes, the air is stagnant, but it could be worse. He’s got his hand terminal. And even though he can’t broadcast out, he can play shows with a headset, or read, if he wants.

The only time things get tense is when he hears someone or other banging around in the bay down below. During those times, Alex damn near loses his marbles. Amos gave him a gun, despite the fact everyone knows Alex is useless in a firefight. But he has it, just in case.

His headache hasn’t gotten much better, though the dark and the quiet help.

He sleeps a lot.

He thinks a lot.

He tries to meditate like his mother taught him, but that stuff still just ain’t for him.

Things don’t start to get  _ really _ hard until he watches the messages from Casey that he’d saved.

Alex’s sister looks just like their mother. Same eyes, same nose, same chin. And their mother looks like Gran and Gran looked like GG. A whole female line, passing their features along with meticulous detail. He can remember Casey complaining that if she looked like Mom, she looked old. But she didn’t. Not  _ before _ at least. After the war, after the Sponsorship Program, everything changed. Now she carries the weight of Mars in her features.

Alex wishes he’d saved more of her messages from before the Program. His hand terminal is full of nothing but grave concerns and warnings. He misses her smirk.  He misses her snark. He misses the sound of her laughter. Now he only has memories of a happier Casey, and even those are starting to fuzz at the edges.

It’s torture, but he can’t stop watching the videos.

_ Alex… I never thought I’d say this, never thought I’d ask you to give up flying, but I think you need to come home. The reports of what’s happening to Martians out there? It’s awful. And I plain can’t stomach the thought of losing you... _

_ Alex...they’re trickin’ folks,  _ kidnapping _ people. Do you remember Reed? He went on for weeks about going off-world to see Layla and he even found a guy that was willing to smuggle him up the well for a fee. But we just heard. It was a  _ trap _. He’s been collared. And the news is saying to watch out for off-worlders. They say lots of folks are leaving with more than what’s listed on their manifests... _

_ Alex...Frida Patel is gone. No one knows where she went and we’re all so afraid that… _

_ Alex...I can't sleep. I keep thinking… _

_ Alex...I saw Talissa today. She asked about you. She’s worried. We’re all worried. They found Frida, though. But Davey? He got in a fight with some U.N.N. guys last night. He was drunk and… I’m sorry. I don’t mean to cry every time we talk, it’s just…  _

_ Alex… nononono...what has James Holden done?! Your name and face are everywhere…  _

_ Alex… I love you, brother… I need you to stay safe.  _

_ Alex… _

_ Alex. _

The crew visits him sometimes, always knocking in a rhythm they agreed on in advance so Alex doesn’t accidentally shoot anyone. There’s not much they can do together without drawing attention to themselves, but he enjoys the quiet companionship. Plus they bring pills for his migraine, and it helps a little. He watches a movie on mute, side-by-side with Naomi, he shares a flask of not-quite-real whiskey with Holden, he plays cards with Amos.

Amos stays with him the longest and says the least. He also makes the container seems small and tight, but it’s good. Not claustrophobic, just...full. It’s nice. Companionable.

When they aren’t around, Alex falls back in with his old friend sleep. But around week two, things get a bit tense and they have a real ugly falling out.

Sleep brings him dreams.

No. Nightmares.

In his nightmares the crew of the Roci has left Tycho and they’re  _ en route _ to Mars. Always Mars. And they encounter another ship. U.N.N. Always another ship. Always U.N.N. And it opens fire with weapons Alex has never seen before but somehow knows are Protogen-made. When Alex blinks, he’s standing ankle-deep in blood and all that is left of his friends are anonymous chunks of meat. Alex gawks at the gore, opens his mouth, tastes blood in the air. Always. And he closes his mouth. And when he looks up. He sees a gaping hole in the ship that oughta, by all accounts, suck him right out into the vacuum of space. But it doesn’t.

And he’s alone with the Roci, with his dead crewmates, with the vast open blackness of space that just won’t take him.

He wakes up with a migraine so bad that the little beams of light coming through his air holes are blinding. He pulls the flat pillow over his face and breathes in the smell of his own dried sweat and tries not to cry out from the pain.

He drifts to sleep and startles awake, either from the pain of his head or from the dreams. 

It happens over and over.

Finally, he sits up, resting his head against the side of the crate and he remembers Mars. He remembers red dirt and riding the tubes with his cousins and going to University. He wonders if Casey has sent him a new message, but he can’t check because his terminal’s cut off from the network. His once tough-as-nails sister will no doubt be sick with worry if he doesn’t reply.

The beginning of week three brings Capital T trouble when he hears Amos and one of the workers get into it down below. There are shouts he can only half-understand. Something about the worker sneaking around. The argument comes to blows and by the end there’s only groans from the worker, then silence.

His dreams change. In them, a Belter bounty hunter holds the crew at gunpoint.  _ It’s them or you.  _ Doesn't matter where he hides, they always find him. And it doesn’t matter if he turns himself over, they always kill the crew.

His migraine ebbs for the first time in days, and suddenly, more clear-headed, he realizes what he has to do to make it all  _stop._

He ain’t a coward. He’s ex-MCRN. He’s lived through hellish firefights, things lesser pilots—and those with lesser resolve—never would have survived. And he ain’t a quitter, either. He’s not giving up, he tells himself.

He’s protecting his family.

He can’t open the container from the inside, and so he has to wait for someone to visit before he enacts his plans. He hopes for Naomi, damn sure doesn’t want Holden. He gets Amos, and it actually makes things easier.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” he tells Amos, holding up a hand to belay any argument the man might make.

“Okay,” Amos says instead.. “Let me go secure the Bay, you can take a break.”

“You…” He trails off, surprised.

“Don’t worry about it, Alex, no one’s getting in while I’m around. If you want five minutes out of the box, I’ll give you five minutes.”

It warms Alex’s heart and when he’s finally on the ground he takes a second to glory in all the space around him, stretches out, and he tries not to think about having to go back inside.

“Amos,” he finally says. “I want you to sponsor me.”

“No, you don’t,” Amos replies without missing a beat. “Not me.”

“Yeah, I really do. Naomi can’t do it, Jim won’t do it. It’s gotta be you. Once we’re all fixed up here, we head to a planet with an EMSO and—”

“Besides, Cap said nope. You know I’d do goddamn anything for you, Alex, but I can’t do this.”

Alex shakes his head. It head feels like it’s going to explode. “Cap said...you can’t sponsor me?”

“Yeah, he was pretty fucking explicit about it. Direct order and everything.”

Rage suddenly boils up in Alex at the words. It’s one thing for Holden to refuse for himself. Even the broadcast was...well… But this? No. 

“Besides, U.N. won’t take your ass now, brother,” Amos says. “You’d be an idiot to try.”

Alex steps right into Amos’s space, fury etching his features. He’s exhausted, he’s lonely, his migraine is damn near as old as the Program itself, and all he can see when he closes his eyes at night is a wrecked ship and the shredded flesh of his loved ones. His hands ball into fists. “Say it again. Call me an idiot again.”

Amos puts a hand, heavy and comforting on his arm. “I’m not gonna fight you, Alex. But take a swing if you want.”

Oh, Alex wants. He wants…

But Amos’ gaze is open and friendly, not a hint of malice or violence and after a moment, Alex relaxes under the weight of the big man’s hand.

“If you can’t help, that’s fine,” he says, stepping away and missing the warmth and reassurance of Amos’s hand as it falls. “I’ll find someone else who will. I’m sure I can negotiate somethin’—”

Amos’ expression hardens, just a little. “You don’t want to do that.”

“The hell I don’t,” Alex says. “Roci’s beat up, Naomi got her goddamn toe shot off, and they’re stopping us everywhere we go. We ain’t had a legitimate ‘we aren’t secretly out to get you’ contract offer since the broadcast went out and we barely were able to offload on Ganymede before those assholes on who-knows-what side tried to storm the ship. I’m  _ tired _ , Amos,” he shouts, in that moment not caring who might be lingering around the ship. “I’m tired and I hurt and I just want it all to  _ stop _ .”

“I know,” Amos says. “I know. The whole thing’s shit. I wish I could make it stop. Even if I can’t pull the whole galaxy’s heads out of their collective ass, I wish I could make it better  _ for you _ .”

“I can’t let them keep coming for y’all. I’ve got to do something about it,” he says. “And I’m sorry if that seems like I’m giving up, but I  _ am  _ going out there, and I  _ am  _ going to find someone willing to partner up with me on a Sponsorship contract.”

Amos scratches the back of his neck, thinking for a long moment before he says, “I ever tell you the story about that girl in Baltimore and the possum?”

Alex shakes his head slowly, his brow furrowing. With the shouting, his headache is thumping hard inside his skull. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say anything about Baltimore except that you were born there. And that you’d fuck a wall before you’d go back.”

Amos nods. “Yeah, well, when I was a kid, there was this hooker and her daughter that lived near us”—he doesn’t explain who ‘us’ is—“and they had this huge dog. Mean sonofabitch. And one day the girl was out there, wrestling with him, but he was bigger than her by about twenty pounds. So I go over there to see what’s going on and the dog is attacking this possum. You ever seen a possum before?”

“Sure,” Alex says. “At the zoo.”

Amos laughs at that. “The zoo. Shit. So anyway, I fight off the dog and the girl’s bawling ’cause the possum’s dead. It was the strangest fucking thing.”

“Why?”

“An unregistered girl  _ that _ age crying over something like that. Baltimore makes you hard. The littlest baby girls, even.”

Alex nods slowly, not sure where this is going, but not wanting to interrupt. Baltimore has always been off the table, and to hear anything about it, even if it’s something weird, seems important.

“Anyway, her mom’s drugged the fuck up, so I take her and the dog to get some street meat and they calm down. When we get back, she goes straight over to the place where that possum was. And you know what we found?”

“A dead possum?”

“Nothing. It was gone.”

“Because it was just ‘playin’ possum?’”

“See, that’s the thing. Not according to baby girl. She looks up at me, and she’s dead serious when she says, ‘I bet a helpful raccoon dragged him off.’ And I said, ‘Sure. Seems logical.’”

“Is that the end of the story?”

“You wanted more?”

A grin twists Alex’s lips as he asks, “What the hell did that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing,” Amos says, and then nods at something over Alex’s shoulder, “Just distracting you ’til the boss got here.”

Alex spins around and finds Naomi standing there, a bundle of med injectors gripped tightly in her fisted hand. He doesn’t have a second to react before she jabs him in the neck with the whole damn lot of them. He feels the injections like a rush into his veins and staggers as they begin to take effect nearly instantly.

“Can’t let you throw your life away, Alex.” Naomi’s brow is furrowed deep. She looks old and tired. Reminds him of Casey.

“Goddammit XO,” he says, stumbling before Amos catches him under the arms. “It’s my choice…”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It should be your choice. I know it should. But it isn’t.”

* * *

When he wakes up later in the Med Bay, the whole galaxy believes Alex Kamal is dead.

<<< >>>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm consistently overwhelmed by the kind feedback. Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Ps. That delightful story about the possum and the raccoon was based on a real life event. Except the BIG DOG was a little dachshund, and the little girl was an adult with strange ideas about how nature works. So, I'll just go ahead and protect the identity of the sweet dork who so insisted a helpful raccoon was more likely than a possum playing...possum.


	8. Now pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex is...okay. He swears.
> 
> Pt. 1 of a two-part "NOW".

**-NOW- (pt. 1)**

It takes a full day and a half for him to emerge from his hiding place, but Alex finally sets foot on the cargo bay floor, determined to rejoin the world. He stretches for a long time, working the kinks out of cramped muscles. He takes a breather then, leaning back against a crate and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light.

There’s an ache in his belly, a deeply disconcerting feeling of _needing_ his chair. The cargo bay just seems too darn large after the embrace of his hiding spot. He’s been doing basic navigation via hand terminal and ignoring the infrequent messages he’s received. If he doesn’t start acting normal again soon one of the crew’ll take notice, but his duties oughta keep a little longer.

Alex feels...better.

That or he’s finally gone and shattered into a million pieces.

He’s not sure it matters which, actually.

He scratches his neck and thinks about Amos, about what happened. He spent an awful long while in the dark _not_ thinking about it, but the truth is, Alex misses his friend. It’s a vast feeling, the loneliness, as empty as space herself and just as dark and cold to boot. And every second he drifts further away from his lifelines, untethered.When he passes Jim in the corridor, Alex smiles, because it’s expected. But it ain’t Jim he wants.

“I’ve got good news,” Holden says, no questions about where Alex has been holed up all this time. “ _Liliput’s_ told us about an abandoned mining facility on an asteroid near— _”_

“We oughta play cards, at dinner maybe.” The words flow from his mouth in the place of an answer. Alex doesn’t believe in _Liliput’s_ , or some promised land. He believes in the _Rocinante_ , in his family.

“O-okay?” Holden says.

“Where’s Amos?” Alex asks.

“Uh, Engineering, I think? Maybe his quarters? But, Alex—”

“Thanks, Cap,” Alex says, and leaves his captain confused in the hallway.

In Engineering there’s no sign of Amos, so Alex goes to check the man’s quarters.

Only once he’s there, standing in the doorway, does it strike him this maybe oughta be a little awkward. But somehow… it isn’t. Their encounter in Engineering should have created a flight plan that took them through a rough patch of space. But nope, it looks like smooth sailing ahead and Alex is damn grateful.

“Hey,” he says.

He takes in Amos’ face,  his not-quite-handsome features, the nose that’s been obviously broken and re-broken a few too many times, the perpetual calm. There’s nothing strange or unfamiliar in the space between the pair of them.

Alex feels relief, like he’s just released the Roci’s docking clamps and she’s floating free in space, ready to carry his family to new and interesting places and people. Amos gave him a handy one time? So what? It’s old news. “You busy?”

“Nah, just watching this piece-of-shit show. Need something?”

Oh, he does. But if he could ask for that, he wouldn’t have spent the last few days in the cargo bay, hiding.

“Want some company?”

“’Course,” Amos replies and Alex steps inside, glancing at the vid playing on the wall panel. A woman in a little black dress sits at dinner in a space station in the middle of an asteroid field, a white EMSO-issue collar around her neck. The wall of the restaurant is plainly glass, and the view of the stars beyond it is breathtaking, but also too cheesily unrealistic for Alex’s taste. There’s not a space station in the Sol system with a window like that, it’d just be too damn dangerous.

The woman’s knee-deep in a monologue and for a moment he just listens.

“— _we all did things we ain't proud of durin’ the war, but I…_ ” She lowers her eyes, pulls a breadstick from the basket in front of her and fiddles with it. “ _What I did to those Earthers, Harold…_ ” She raises her hand to the collar around her neck, running her manicured fingers over it with seemingly unconscious sensuality. “ _This is better’n a military tribunal, I s’pose_.”

Christ.

Shit.

“Why are you watching this?”

“That main girl—Jaya something?”Amos motions vaguely at the screen. “She gets her tits out every once in a while. Often enough to keep watching.”

“This is… it’s Sponsorship Propaganda, Amos, disguised as a drama.”

The actress’ terrible Mariner Valley drawl etches deep, ugly cuts along Alex’s skin.

“She’s got a nice pair of tits,” Amos replies with a shrug. “Worth beating off to.”

There’s a sick feeling of betrayal followed by a tendril of curiosity. He draws closer to Amos and closer to the screen.

As long as there have been hand terminals and broadcasts, there have been propaganda-dramas. When the whole damn galaxy succumbs to the Protomolocule, somewhere, somehow, a propaganda-drama will continue to drone on. The tune stays the same, only the villain changes. Who should we be afraid of today? The U.N.N.? The OPA? The Mormons and their generation ship? Makes no damn difference, unless you’re the subject _du jour_.

He’s seen a few of the new crop. Some of them have been heavy-handed _Martians will steal your children_ vilification, but others are more subtle, insidious.

“What’s the plot?” Alex asks slowly, watching the actress cry into her wine about ‘all the blood on her hands.’

“What don’t you get about ‘tits out,’ brother?” Amos asks with a small grin. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes and Alex wonders if this shit pisses him off more than he’s letting on. “Not really _watching_. I’m just waiting for the ladies.”

Alex manages a weak chuckle and turns his attention back to the screen.

Every line is sickening. Alex goes into something of a trance, staring at the screen, but no longer really noticing what’s taking place.

Not more than ten minutes later, the main character shimmies out of her dress, revealing a lovely, natural pair of breasts. Amos was right—tits out.

“I’m gonna jerk off,” Amos says, like he might say, _I’m heading to Engineering_. He looks over at Alex, his gaze steady.

Alex stands up from the crash couch automatically, ready to give Amos privacy, but then his brain cuts the burn and he feels momentarily weightless. He turns back around.

“That an invitation?” Alex asks, surprisingly calm. He won’t make the mistake of assuming again.

The big man shrugs one shoulder. “Can be. If you want.”

“Well, it _would_ be nice to pay you back for helpin’ me out and all...”

“Nah. No need for that.”

Cheesy music plays as the woman steps into the shower and soaps herself up.

Alex thinks for a second, and feels some of the fire of his former self begin to awaken in his veins. He looks Amos in the eyes.

“Alright then,” he says. “Maybe I just want to touch you, no payback involved.”

Amos raises an eyebrow.

“Well, hell, Kamal,” he says, and starts to unbuckle his belt, “You should’ve led with that.”

* * *

There’s something unsettling about having jerked off his best friend while watching a propaganda drama about the dangers of unregistered Martians. But Alex doesn’t know exactly which part troubled him most. He looks up at himself in the mirror over the quarter's small sink and washes Amos’ spunk off his hands.

He’s okay.

Not great.

Not tragic.

Okay.

“Hey, before you go…”

Alex just barely manages to cut the water off before Amos grabs his shoulder and spins him around. He tugs him close and Alex doesn’t know what to do with his wet hands.

Then Amos closes the remaining gap between them and they’re kissing.

“Oh.” The word brushes hot between their lips.

“Bad?” Amos asks.

Alex answers by leaning into the kiss, by taking more. He puts his arms around Amos, clinging to him like he might disappear. Or worse, change his mind. But Amos does neither.

Instead he deepens the kiss. Alex can taste Amos’ mouth, the unique flavors that make up the mechanic. Amos fists his hands into Alex’s shirt, groaning.

“If I hadn’t just gotten off…”

Alex doesn’t say he wouldn’t mind a hand, he just clings and kisses, kisses and clings. It’s enough. It’s more than enough.

After what seems like a million years, Alex finally steps back, gasping, and then grinning.

“What the hell was that about?” he asks.

Amos shrugs, hands still tangled up in the fabric. “Well, the way I figure things, we’ve gotten each other off twice now… Dunno, it seemed appropriate.”

Alex doesn’t remind Amos that they’ve each only gotten off once.

“Like?” Amos asks and Alex nods. He likes. A lot.

Amos releases him and steps back.

“We should fuck some time,” Amos says.

And straight out of an etiquette manual, Alex replies, “That’d be real fine.”

* * *

“Hey, Alex, can we talk?” Naomi leans against the door to Alex’s room, her expression kind and openly concerned. She doesn’t fidget, she doesn’t look away. She takes all of him in with that gaze that sees too much.

“Sure, XO,” he says and tries not to panic.

Does she know what he and Amos have been up to?

Then again...why should it matter? It isn’t like anyone was upset when she and Holden became a thing. Except he and Amos aren’t really _a thing_ , are they? They’re two people helping each other out. Or maybe just an Earther helping out a Martian.

Well, Amos came, so he must have enjoyed it, but the ringing in Alex’s ears sure as shit ain’t church bells.

“Alex?” Naomi prompts, a note in her voice telling him he’s been off in his own world again. He looks sheepish and does his best not to blurt out what’s on his mind.

“Yeah, sorry,” he says. “What did you need?”

He doesn’t invite her in, it occurs to him too late. There’s a moment in a conversation when you can naturally invite someone inside, and that moment has long since passed. ’Sides, he makes it a point not to entertain Jim’s girlfriend in his quarters.

“You disappeared on us there for a while.”

He nods.

“I noticed,” she says quietly. “And I wondered if you wanted to talk.”

“That’s mighty nice of you, XO,” he says with a grin.

 _He’s okay, he’s okay_.

“But, y’know, I think I just needed to get my head on straight. This whole Sponsorship thing…”

It’s really damn lame the way the excuse comes out.

Sponsorship—the Program—it is what it is. There hasn’t been any big change to it in the last eight months.

Naomi’s here. And she’s worried. And she cares. So, why the hell can’t he just tell her how alone he feels? Why can’t he just—?

“Can I give you a hug?”

Alex’s lips part, but no sound comes out. None at all. Every joint feels frozen, every muscle like it’s under Earth gravity. He can’t make words, so he nods as far as his tight neck muscles will let him. He doesn’t even know if she can tell.

And then she sweeps into the room and she wraps those long Belter arms around him and squeezes hard. The forcefulness of her embrace wrenches a small noise from him—too quiet to identify, too shameful to acknowledge. With spacewalk slowness, he raises his arms to hug her back. He hugs her and he hugs her and he hugs her and he doesn’t give a damn if it makes Jim jealous, in this moment she’s his entire universe and this hug is the epicenter.

God...dammit.

If the embrace lasted forever, it still wouldn’t have been long enough. When she pulls back, he wants to beg her to stay.

It’s too much.

It’s too little.

He’s okay…

_He’s… okay…_

“That’s all, Alex,” she says, “I just wanted you to know I noticed.”

“Thank…” He forgets the ‘you,’ has forgotten everything. He shakes his head and tries not to embarass himself further by crying about it and says, “We’re playin’ cards at dinner.”

She raises an eyebrow and smiles, just a quirk of her lips. “Oh, are we?”

“Yep,” Alex says, swallowing down a tight lump in his throat. “Bring your A-game, Nagata. We’re playin’ for keeps.”

* * *

Alex spends a couple hours of quality time with his favorite gal before dinner. He settles into his seat, checks the consoles, runs his hands over every inch. He’s had control from his hand terminal, but nothing compares to this. He croons to the Roci, apologizes for being gone so long.

It’s with a fair bit of reluctance that he goes down to the galley later. He’d rather not leave the perfect security of his chair, but he’s the one who insisted on cards.

Alex makes dinner for the crew, something he hasn’t done in a while. It’s hotpot, one of his mother’s specialties. He’s pretty good, not on her level, but Amos calls it _fucking delicious_ , and he takes it as a win.

“So what are we playing?” Holden asks around a bite of food.

“Well, it was Alex’s idea,” Naomi says. “What’s your game of choice?”

“You even need to ask?” He pushes away his half-finished bowl and pulls the fresh deck he had the ship fabricate out of his pocket.

“Texas Hold’em,” Amos says and Alex nods.

He shuffles, cuts, and deals and it only takes two hands before their competitive natures begin to show. Banter flies, tempers flare. Half an hour later, Naomi is up four hundred and grinning smugly at every hand. Amos keeps going all-in, losing, and having to buy back into the game. He barks obscenities at every card played. Holden has taken a conservative tack, but he can’t win for losing and he’s developed a damn stupid new tell. He glances at Naomi every time he has a hand worth a shit. And with each loss he grumbles sourly.

And Alex just enjoys them all, his friends, his crew, his family.

“So about this old mining facility,” Alex says, considering his cards. “Tell me more, Cap.”

Holden perks up, obviously excited about the find. “Portis Holdings pulled out of it about ten years ago, but the interior infrastructure is all still there. Life support, recyclers, everything, just need to fuel up the power plant and you’ve got an oasis in the desert. We thought you might want to, y’know, get off the ship for a while.”

Alex looks up at that, cautious and suspicious. The last time he thought he was getting off the ship, he was sorely disappointed. He’d had more resolve back then. He doesn’t think he can take another hit like that.

Not now.

Not when he’s finally...okay.

“I think you’re tryin’ to distract me from my hand with fancy promises.”

Holden’s smile ebbs a little. “No, I—”

“It’s a joke.”

“Well this isn’t. You’ve needed a walkabout for a while. Sorry it isn’t Mars, but there’s a lot of space. And we can stay for a couple of days before we head on to our next job.”

Alex’s breath catches. There’s something in Holden’s tone. Somehow even more earnest than normal, like he intends to make this happen for Alex no matter what. All the same, Alex has heard a lot of promises his captain hasn’t been able to keep.

Not for lack of want or tryin’.

But somehow Alex _believes._

_And it’s damn dangerous._

He knows it is, but getting off ship? Seeing something— _anything_ —new, gutted mining facility or whatever, sounds like a goddamn miracle.

He can’t control the smile that spreads across his face.

“You alright, Alex?” Holden asks, a look of concern etching his still-baby-faced features.

“More’n  alright, Captain.”

And he ducks his face behind his cards so no one can see the tears on his cheeks.

<<< >>>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I’m so excited. I’ve got the next three chapters in various stages of progress and I’m just PUMPED to share them with you all <3 Thank you so much for reading… The response has been SO kind and… gah! It’s making me genuinely emotional.


	9. Now pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's pt. 2 of -NOW-
> 
> Please note: This chapter contains depictions of rough sex. It’s consensual, but it gets a bit out of hand. If that's not your jam, please skip the second half!

**-NOW- (pt. 2)**

 

Alex didn’t think he could ever love a chunk of space debris as much as he loves Asteroid 774,917. The thing doesn’t even have a real name, and the facility isn’t much better: Portis Mining Facility 9e. Doesn’t matter, her austere features belie a warm spirit. She and Alex are kindred. Hell, this hunk of rock is his new best friend.  _ Sorry, Amos _ .

When Alex takes his first step into the facility interior after cycling through the airlock he wants to fall to his knees and kiss the ground like they do in those old pirate vids.  _ Man lost at sea finally finds land.  _ But he keeps himself composed...until they make their way into a connecting corridor. Uniform gray paneling stretches as far as he can see, lit intermittently with standard LED lighting.

He doesn’t even stop to process the sight, he just takes off running, doing small bouncing leaps like he’s a kid again racing his friends to the tube station. 

“Don’t wear yourself out, Kamal!” Amos bellows after him, but even the sight of Bobbie in a full suit of powered armor wouldn’t be enough to stop him right now. He wants to run until his lungs burst and his leg muscles just won’t carry him anymore. He stretches his arms wide as he runs, and he can’t even touch both sides of the corridor.

He doesn’t give much of a thought to how damn stupid he must look.

But his endless corridor does eventually give out, opening on a pair of lifts. He leans against the call button, gets no response, and pokes it a few more times for good measure. Not to worry. He’s off the ship. Even if he has to spend the next three days in an empty corridor, he’ll do it with a smile.

Still, it’d be nice to see the rest of the facility.

“Hurry it up!” Alex shouts back down the walkway.

Before she was a chewed up husk, 774,917 was an S-class asteroid, lousy with minerals and rare metals. Portis reports show they did mostly shaft mining after clearing out the bulk of the surface nickel with Mond-process drones before a single employee even set foot on the rock.

Alex is a Portis Mining Facility 9e expert, having read everything there was to read about his own personal vacation paradise at least twice over on the trip here.

And boy if it wasn’t the most exciting technical document he’d ever read. ’Course, he’d done the same with P&K when he signed on to fly the Cant. Maybe, Alex is just a manuals kind of guy.

“You didn’t have to wait,” Holden says when the group finally joins him.

“I need some engineering expertise,” he says, pressing the lift button exaggeratedly. It still doesn’t respond, which is both disappointing and a bit gratifying. He’d look like a horse’s ass if he’s been standing there daydreaming about  _ in situ _ processing while the power had come back online. “Lift’s got no juice and I don’t feel like jumpin’ blind down this hole and breaking both legs before I’ve had the chance to walk every inch of this glorious place.” 

“Naomi? Amos?” Jim asks, stepping aside so the pair of them can get to the lift to work their magic.

“I’m gonna feel like a right idiot if there’s some switch I didn’t see.”

“No switch,” Naomi says after prying off the panel. Amos looks over her shoulder and grunts. “Just a bit of corroded wiring. Give us a couple of minutes.”

“So…” Holden says and he smiles at Alex. The Captain looks relaxed for the first time in...well, in a while. “You seem really happy, Mr. Kamal.”

“Ah, don’t make it weird by callin’ it out, Cap.”

“Alex, I’m thinking we’re a few miles past weird after you skipped all the way down this corridor.”

“Fair enough.”

They share a laugh and it feels so damn good. Fact is, Alex’s been riding high ever since the poker game. Nah, before that. Since that kiss with Amos. He glances over at Amos who looks up from his work and grins. It makes him feel...good.

“Besides,” Alex says, reluctantly breaking the glance. “I can make it  _ so much _ weirder. You wanna know how many metric tons of palladium this place processed on-site? Or how Ms. T.S. Andreychuk voted at the last Portis board meeting?”

“God, no.”

“My head is packed full of fun facts,” Alex drawls and at that moment, the familiar hum and whir of a lift starting up fills him with an electric sort of joy. “You two deserve a commendation,” he tells Naomi and Amos as he walks back over to the lift. “I’ll put in a good word with the captain.”

Jim wasn’t wrong. The main processing facility looks like Portis Holdings up and disappeared one night. There’s even a bulb of ancient coffee sitting on the edge of one of the stations. He offers it to Holden who pulls a face.

“What a shit hole,” Amos mutters as he walks through, nudging a rolling chair out of the way. “It’s like someone ate concrete and yakked it up everywhere.”

The decor is in shades of gray, bleak and boxy, with the sort of unpolished, rough-concrete walls that were designed to give off that unfinished vibe that never was particularly attractive. The design wouldn’t cut it on a ship. Cut thrust or make an unexpected course correction and someone’s bashing their head open on concrete.

“There’s a whole habitat section,” Alex says cheerfully. “These people were here for years, I’m sure there’s something fun left down there. Maybe liquor. Or at least a pool table.”

Turns out there’s all sorts of shit in the habitat section. A tiny hole-in-the-wall brothel with garish decor. ( _ “Guess a brothel’s a brothel even in a mining facility, eh, brother?” _ ) And a bar that’s unfortunately been cleared out down to the last bulb of fake beer. But there’s darts. Goddamn, but there’s darts!

“You’ve got darts on the Roci,” Naomi says but Alex shakes his head.

“Nah, you don’t get it,” he says. “I know the feel of those darts too well. It’s unfair to you guys, an advantage like that. Plus already bein’ Martian. You know we’re the best at darts.”

“You may have mentioned it once or three hundred times,” she says dryly.

“So, who wants to play?” he asks broadly, feeling his oats. Naomi rolls up her sleeves, her face set hard for the challenge.

“You’re gonna owe me when I mop the floor with you, Kamal.”

“I owe you from poker, XO,” he reminds her with a winning smile. “I’m just gonna wipe out that debt.”

He plays Easy In with Holden, since the man can’t aim a dart for shit.

“How are you so good with a gun, but you can’t throw a dart, Cap?” Alex taunts, hopping up onto the bar. Holden’s ears turn red as he chucks his darts wildly.

Alex just watches Amos putter around and chat with Naomi, and he thinks about that kiss and how he’d like to do more of that. If everyone knew, he could just grab Amos’ hand and lead him out of the bar and back to the brothel. But from the look of everything else around this place, they probably didn’t bother to wash the bedding.on their way out, so maybe that wouldn’t be such a good idea.

For a while, he tosses darts by himself, feeling the weight of the dart in his hand, lining up his shot, letting it fly. It’s soothing, meditative even, and it lulls him into a rare calm. And then one lands and he hears a beep.

It’s a strange thing, so of course, he tries it again.

Another beep.

“Y’all hearing this?” he asks, but no one answers. So Alex walks right up to the board and jabs the dart in.

The beeping starts up steady.

He turns to the crew and every monitor comes alive around him.

“What’n the hell?” he says.

And then it all goes to shit.

Alarms start blaring like cats in heat meeting forks on metal. The shrill noise stabs into his eardrums, rattling him. He jerks around, desperate to find the threat—because there damn sure is one—or at least the source of the alarms.

“What the hell is happenin’?!” he shouts over the noise, his voice sucked away as if in vacuum. 

Naomi and Jim are talking to each other in one corner of the room with the low intimacy of long-time lovers. They lean into each other’s space, grinning at some private joke. It’s like they can’t even hear the noise.

“Cap?! XO?!”

Is he the only one who hears that goddamn sound? But it’s so  _ loud _ . He slams his hands over his ears.

Lights start to flash then, angry blue messages popping up on every screen. Red symbols appear alongside them, warnings he can’t make out, nevermind that he’s standing right there beside them.

Amos strolls up to him, not a care in the goddamn world.

“Y— al——, br——?” he asks and Alex shakes his head, not understanding. Amos, takes Alex’s wrist and gently pulls his hand away from his ear. He leans close enough that his lips almost brush skin. Almost. But not quite. “You alright, brother?”

“Of course I’m not alright!” Alex shouts back, “Sounds like a goddamn dome-breach siren. Or…” Slowly, the noise ebbs. It’s loud. Damn loud. But it’s not so ear-splitting. “It sounds like an…”

Amos’ look is open, unguarded, too friendly, too understanding.

“Like an… EVA...alarm…”

He looks around at the screens, and suddenly the warnings and alerts all come into focus.  _ Everything _ comes into focus.

_ Kamal, Alex. _

His vitals are listed below. His heart rate is shown numerically and as an erratic and frenetic bouncing line, his BP—dangerously high, and the low oxygen warning. The tank needs changing.

Oh Goddammit.

“This...isn’t real, is it?” Alex says quietly, his voice lost in the blaring alarms. But Amos hears him perfectly and lays a warm hand on his shoulder. A hand that isn’t real. Warmth that isn’t real.

“’Fraid not .”

“This isn’t real,” he repeats. He blinks, the walls around him dissolving. 

— _ “So about this old mining facility. Tell me more, Cap.” _

— _ “Portis Holdings pulled out of it about ten years ago, but the interior infrastructure is all still there. Life support, recyclers, everything, just need to fuel up the power plant and you’ve got an oasis in the desert. We thought you might want to, y’know, get off the ship for a while.” _

No.

No, that’s not what Holden said, was it?

That wasn’t the conversation.

Alex was studying his hand. Pair of threes. Nothing. He was considering a bluff, but, somehow, Naomi had read him like a book all damn night. It’d be right nice, finally getting one over on her.

—  _ “...an oasis in the desert.  _ Lilliput’s _ is scouting it out as a potential location for a meeting between the OPA, the leader of Martian’s Home, that group that’s been smuggling expats back to Mars, and a U.N. representative. It’s gonna be a bit hairy, but this might really turn into something.” _

— _ “I’m assumin’ you want me to stay on the ship then, Cap. Oasis or not.” _

— _ “I...well...it’s a little more complicated.” _

— _ “Oh?” _

— _ “The only way everyone would agree was if the  _ Rocinante _ coordinates the security arrangements.” _

— _ “And?” _

— _ “...and if we house all three advance security teams.” _

U.N.

On the  _ Rocinante _ .

The silence was tense, but unsurprised. They'd known. They'd  _ all _ known.

— _ “I think you’re tryin’ to distract me from my hand with fancy promises.” _

— _ “No, I—” _

— _ “It’s a joke.” _

A joke.

— _ “How long?” _

— _ “They’ll be here for three days.” _

Three days. Seventy-two hours, plus set-up time. Seventy-two hours in the hulls, seventy-two hours playing for keeps.

— _ “I wish there was another way. But…” _

Jim probably said more. He can remember the vague drone of Holden’s voice, like the hum of the air recycler. But he just looked at his cards, shuffling the three of diamonds with the three of spades, back and forth, back and forth.

— _ “You alright, Alex?” _

— _ “More’n alright, Captain.” _

Those hadn’t been tears of joy.

With numb efficiency, Alex feels for the replacement tank of oxygen strapped to his leg. He slowly changes it out and one alarm stops its screeching. The other—warning him about his heart rate and BP—he chins off.

Alex stares blankly into the darkness.

And then he starts screaming. 

Screaming as loud and as hard as he can.

Screaming into his suit, into the vacuum between the hulls. 

Screaming until his throat is like sandpaper and he can’t breathe for screaming…

And the alarms go off again and Alex screams even more.

* * *

“Alex…” Naomi says as she helps him out of his suit. 

It’s been seventy-some-odd-who-gives-a-fuck-anymore hours. He wobbles in place before slowly raising his head to look at her.

She’s like a stranger, at first, and he takes a minute to take her all in, her hair pulled back in an efficient ponytail, jumpsuit half-unzipped to reveal a tank top, a smudge of grease on one cheek. This is Naomi Nagata. His XO. His friend.

He thinks?

He wonders how much of his life has been a fantasy.

How long.

When he speaks, it’s like someone else is doing the talking.

“Didja hug me the other day, Naomi?” His voice is only a little hoarse now. 

He’s frightened of her response, frightened of both the  _ yes  _ and the  _ no _ . But he can’t not ask. He needs to know just how shit bonkers he’s gone.

Was everything in his head?

The hug?

Amos’ kiss?

Is he even on the  _ Rocinante _ ?

Is he—?

“Yeah, I did…” Naomi says slowly, her eyebrows knitting at the question. She has a nick of a scar through one of them where the hair won’t grow back in. “Do you need another hug, Alex?”

She lifts her arms but he doesn’t move toward the embrace and she lets them fall away.

Alex lets out a sigh of relief. If that was real, then Amos was real.

And he  _ needs _ Amos to be real.

_ “We should fuck some time,”  _ Amos had said after kissing him.

As Alex walks toward his quarters, he calls Amos on his comm. It takes a while for the man to pick up, and once he does, he looks overworked and tired. He looks like  _ he _ could use a roll in the hay as much as Alex.

“Hey,” Amos says, and then he looks as concerned as Naomi. Brows knit. Eyes searching Alex’s face. Alex suddenly wonders what he looks like to them. Does he also look like a stranger? “Everything okay?”

“My room,” Alex says, and the mechanic must get it immediately, because he grins.

* * *

Alex slowly helps Amos undress, which earns him a raised eyebrow. He doesn’t care. He’ll lead by example.  _ Here, Partner, this is what touch feels like, and I need it real goddamn bad.  _ He runs his hands inside Amos’ jumpsuit, feels the hardened muscles of his shoulders, the scars, some divots, some keloids. They are a map Alex can’t follow, to a history Amos will never share.

Doesn’t matter.

He presses in for a kiss that’s all kinds of sloppy. That doesn’t matter either. This ain’t a photo shoot.

Something warm blooms in him. He shoves it away. That direction lies hope, and Alex doesn't need that horse shit. Hope is the kid sister at a sleepover, ruining every good thing.

“You taste good.” Amos’ voice is low as he murmurs into Alex’s mouth. He can feel the words as much as hear them. Alex doesn't reply, just presses against the man, trying to short circuit his brain. A thought says he should have gone on the juice instead of coming here, then it's gone, lost under the weight of Amos against him.

“You sure about this?” Amos asks, reaching down to grab handfuls of Alex’s ass. He squeezes hard enough to cause a twinge of pain and Alex… Alex likes it.

“Hell yes,” Alex replies, and hurriedly works his way out of his jumpsuit. He wouldn’t be so embarrassed to be naked in front of Amos, except that Amos pulls back a little to get a good look at him, and Alex knows it’s been a long damn time since he had that MCRN body that turned heads. But in spite of his soft belly, Amos looks thoughtful...pleased.

It’s nice to be wanted.

Skilled hands guide him around, lips trail kisses from the base of his skull, down between his shoulder blades, down to the small of his back, and then spit-slicked fingers work him open in ways that are damn uncomfortable.

Good? Bad? Alex’s really not sure. It’s definitely  _ new,  _ though. And there’s been a metric shit ton of  _ the same  _ over the last eight months.

He hisses as Amos digs further into him, but then there’s this spot.  _ Nnm.  _ It feels real goddamn fine. Then Amos thrusts another finger in and—

“How many fingers you got in there, hoss? Twelve?”

“Two,” Amos says.

Christ. Just two and it already feels like this?

“Wouldja say two... _ nnh! _ Two would be the equivalent of...?”

“You’ve had your hands on it,” Amos says, and Alex can hear his grin. “You know it’s bigger than that.”

He does. He really does, and the thought is terrifying and erotic. And somehow, it’s exactly what he needs.

“Get another one in there, then.”

“I’m getting there.”

“No.  _ Now _ .” Alex’s voice is thick as he forms the words. “ _ Please _ .”

Amos obliges, twisting his fingers and spreading them so he can slide in one more, and Alex gasps, letting out an ugly string of curses. 

“Be easy, brother,” Amos says. “Try not to clamp down like that.”

“Sure,” he agrees. It’s weird and it’s painful, but then Amos’ fingers find that place again and it’s  _ almost  _ enough to distract him from the pain. His cock stirs in his hand.

He wants to say,  _ do that again _ , but his vocal cords would have to be working for that, and all he’s got in him is a groan. So the moment passes and then another, and then, after Alex is another year older, Amos says, “You want me to keep working you like this? Or you want me to fuck you?”

“...Do it…”

“Which one?”

“ _ Fuck… _ ” is all he manages.

Amos’ meaty fingers are replaced by something that should be  _ much _ too large to accommodate. He thought he was ready for it… Christ.  _ Christ.  _ But there’s a difference between a couple of fingers and a hard cock. Alex cries out as pleasure flees, and his fingernails dig into the palms of his hands. His cock flags, deflated by the agony of his ass being torn open with one harsh thrust. He drops his head against the wall and bites his lip until it bleeds, focusing on the white-hot core of pain. 

_ Now  _ it’s like going on the juice. He feels  _ everything. _

He needs this. He needs it. Needs it. Needs...

“More,” he says. It don’t matter that it hurts more than it feels good, he won’t let go of this feeling of being alive. Finally. Alive. After so long as an MX corpse. “I can take it,” he assures Amos. He ain’t too sure if it’s the truth, but he’d die for real before letting this end.

He shoves back on Amos, lets out a strangled moan. Something warm and wet trickles down his thigh. Sweat, he hopes.

His world narrows to the desperate fight for breath.

The hands digging bruises into his hips.

The hard snap of hips and the brutal driving thrust of Amos’ cock.

The struggle to stay conscious.

“Can…?” It’s the only word he can manage for several long moments as Amos fucks into him. “Harder?”

“Harder,” Amos repeats, as if the word is foreign.

“ _ Harder _ .”

Alex wants tomorrow to be a day of counting bruises. He wants it to hurt when he walks. He’d gladly take a scar to remind him of this, of feeling  _ something new. _

“Harder, Amos, g’dammit!” 

Amos bites down  _ hard _ on his shoulder, slamming into him with inhuman strength, crushing his body against the anti-spalling webbing of the wall. His arm’s pinned under him so that he can’t even move the hand clutching his dick. Every thrust tattoos the pattern of the webbing into his skin.

Tears stream down Alex’s face; pleasure has long since gone. But still he wants more. Wants to be consumed by the fire of Amos’ touch. No matter how much it hurts.

The webbing chafes.

“Mm…” he slurs. He’s insane. Maybe he  _ is _ on the juice. Maybe he’s flying the  _ Rocinante _ right now and he’s finally stroked out. Because what sane person would— “ _ MORE! _ ” he croaks.

Amos slams against him so hard that Alex’s head flies to the side, cracking hard against the edge of his wall screen and stars explode before his eyes. The world gets heavy, the colors dense, dark.

_ Okay…  _ Alex thinks as everything begins to slip away. 

_ Now you’re okay, Kamal... _

* * *

Alex slowly opens his eyes on a stark white ceiling. He groans, his neck stiff, head pounding, whole body feeling like one big bruise. His head rolls to the side and he groans again, realizing he’s in the Auto-Doc.

Why…?

Why would he be here…?

And then he lets out a half-slurred string of curses that would have gotten his butt busted when he was a kid.

More hallucinations?

His head is swimming, the light making after-trails.

Christ.

He’d thought he and Amos were being intimate, so...he really musta just passed out after his oxygen tank crapped out on him. Maybe they’d been monitoring him. Dragged him out from between the hulls.

His whole life’s a damn fever dream now, huh?

How far back does it go?

“You awake?” Amos’ deep voice startles him and he slowly rolls over, a feat not easily accomplished, to find Amos leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest. The man’s face is a hard mask, but when their eyes meet, his expression softens for half a second.

Did it...did it really happen? He shifts and his sore ass protests the movement. That’s right. Amos’ cock was really inside him and then… then he cracked his head. He carefully lifts a hand to his skull, fingering the lump. He hisses at the pain.

“ _ That _ isn’t happening again.”

“What?” Alex asks, his brain feeling sloggy. “The sex?”

“Doing it that rough.  _ Can’t  _ happen again.” His Baltimore accent comes out thick. “Got it?”

“I’m sorry.” The words spill from him like a bag of milk-product torn open. “I know it was a...lot. But goddamnit, Amos. I wanted that. I  _ needed  _ it. And next time I’ll be ready. It’ll go better.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Alex. Don’t like it.”

“That’s what I’m saying though. I...wanted it to hurt.”  _ I wanted to  _ feel.

Alex doesn’t think Amos’ expression could get any harder, but then it does. His hands fall to his sides and flex unconsciously.

“Look, my moral compass? It’s all kinds of fucked. And when I hurt a person, it’s ’cause they aren’t a person to me anymore. You’re a person, Alex. And my friend. And if you need me to fuck you, I’ll fuck you. But I’m not fucking you so hard you end up in here  _ ever _ again.”

“But—”

“This isn’t a ‘but’ type situation. If we do this, we do it my way. Got it?”

After long, silent  moments, Amos walks over to him, studies him. He reaches out and cups Alex’s face in one of those giant hands and Alex leans into the touch.

“Gonna need a verbal on that.”

“Solid copy, Ames,” Alex says quietly.

<<< >>>


	10. Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience! Please enjoy some *tremendously angry* Alex Kamal. <3

**-THEN-**

 

Alex Kamal is dead. (Long live Alex Kamal?)

In the Mariner Valley, in a dusty cemetery, the whole damn Kamal Family gathered to mourn their fallen son. Casey was there with her kids, looking hard, her eyes shining. Talissa and her folks came. She wept openly, which surprised Alex, somewhat, and hell if it didn’t hurt his heart a bit to see it. But not nearly as much as watching his mother collapse to her knees, overcome with grief.

Someone shoulda caught her; _Alex_ shoulda been there to catch her.

The planet watched his family’s intimate pain, and if the news feeds are to be trusted, Mars mourned its lost son. Maybe he wasn’t just the poster boy for Martian Expatriates, but the poster boy of Martians, full stop.

He’s surprised the U.N. hasn’t shut down Martian broadcast capability. They’ve taken damn near everything else.

The days when he isn’t shocked, _numb_ , he’s burning with anger. Hot little flares of fury, like firing thrusters. Flashes of fantasy that end with him shoving Jim Holden out an airlock. It’s a good thing Cap ain’t around, because the way he’s feeling these days, Alex might actually space the man for what he’s done.

This was all Holden’s grand, convoluted, stupid-ass plan, after all.

 _Killing Alex off_ like a supporting character in a play.

Pilot? Who needs a pilot? Not the _Rocinante_.

And so what if it would’ve been a helluva lot easier for Alex to walk his happy ass into the EMSO, Amos in tow, to get himself slaved up good and proper to the big mechanic until death did ’em part.

At least then, the family would’ve been safe, until Holden’s next crusade.

Safe.

Easy.

But why take that route when you’re _James Fucking Holden_? When you could take the long way around instead? Barrel through an asteroid field for good measure? When you could fake Alex’s murder on Tycho Station, broadcast an enraged promise of vengeance, and then race off in a borrowed rockhopper with Amos in tow to parts unknown?

At dinner, Naomi continues to watch the broadcast. _James Holden’s Real Live Drama Hour._ It’s such a goddamn _production_ , but the fury and sorrow in Holden’s eyes seem real. And that’s the only thing that can cut through the terrible anger Alex feels at his captain. He understands _why_ Holden feels the way he does, he even understands _why_ he goes about it this way. What he can’t get his head around is why he cuts Alex out of the equation.

Never mind what Alex wants.

Never mind how Alex feels.

Never mind what effect his actions have on Alex.

“You’re grinding your teeth so loud I can hear it from here,” Naomi says lightly.

She hasn’t been tiptoeing around him exactly. She even apologized for her part in all this insanity, but not for the intent. She stands firm with Holden that _this_ is the right thing, but that don’t mean she ain’t sympathetic in her own way.

“Those tears in his eyes,” Alex scoffs. “Wonder what he has to pull out of his ass to manage that shit.”

Naomi’s brow furrows and the corners of her mouth turn down in a little frown. “Wouldn’t take much.”

He makes a derisive noise and pokes at his noodles, grumpy as a bear with a sore head. “Oh yeah?”

“He’d just have to think about you dying for real,” she says, and it’s starkly matter-of-fact, backed by the certainty that comes from years of intimacy. “Shed a few tears myself that way. At the bar with Sam before we left Tycho,” she says. “It wasn’t hard, Alex,losing you would gut me. It would gut us all.”

He stomps down on the impulse to say something hateful, but even so, Naomi reads him easily and her frown turns angry.

“You do realize the _whole galaxy_ wanted you,” she says. “For the money, for the notoriety, for free labor, as...a trinket, maybe? And they weren’t going to stop coming until they found you. This will get most of the heat off our backs, but, Alex, you’re a commodity. I wish it wasn’t true, but that’s how the galaxy sees... _saw_... you.”

“Maybe it’d be nice if _Holden_ didn’t treat me that way.”

“Jim just wants you to live the freest life you can,” she says. “Don’t give me that look. He’s a dumbass, sometimes. He’s headstrong, he’s stubborn, he’s single-minded, but he _cares_ about you and he’s just trying to keep us all together, keep us safe.”

“We could’ve just had Amos sponsor me—”

“You know…” She chooses her words like she’s measuring out ingredients for that awful tiramisu they used to make together. She’s being careful, but it’s still gonna come out ugly. “Set aside the fact that Jim’s ethics _wouldn’t let him rest_ if you were made a U.N. slave. Think about it, even if you were registered, that wouldn’t make you less of a target. Someone with a _lot_ of firepower could come along, shoot us down, and make off with you anyway. As long as you were ‘alive,’ you were a target. And that made us a target, too.”

Alex finally stops poking at his food and drops his fork. “I’m gonna go take a shower,” he says, shoving his tray into the recycler.

Naomi’s silence speaks volumes.

* * *

Alex can’t just pilot instinctively anymore when the ship’s on manual, he has to _think_ about his every move. He’s gotta be just a bit clumsy, just a bit wild, not at all like himself. Because anyone with footage of the Roci and some half-decent pattern-recognition software will realize it’s him on the stick.

They’ll know he isn’t dead.

He’s got a different sort of target painted on his back now.

Alex chews on what Naomi said last night. That it ain’t just him. That they’re all in danger. As if he doesn’t know that. _That doesn’t make this any easier_.

He’s got an angry demon burning away in his gut and it won’t let up, even in the face of logic.

* * *

Hours later, Alex is in his chair on the flight deck, trying his dead-level best not to listen to the ongoing broadcast that Naomi is still glued to. It’s so dramatic, Jim talking a bunch of shit, narrating the hunt for the people responsible for Alex’s ‘death.’

Alex wonders how many folks across the galaxy are listening in right now. How many of them care? How many would be just as happy to see Jim blown to atoms as to see Alex avenged?

“Approaching target,” Holden says, his voice hard.

How are they going to pull this off? No one bothered to tell him. A drone ship, maybe, programmed to target the rockhopper and launch missiles with no payload? Or maybe they’re going after some pirate crew? Whatever the case, one thing’s for sure, no innocents will be harmed on Jim’s watch. One casualty was enough.

Alex tries to refocus on his flight plan. Is it different enough from his usual routes? He’s thrown in little errors, accepting trajectories the ship suggests without correcting for the hiccup in the starboard thrusters, planning a route that skips a little too fast off Jupiter’s gravity well. It’s wasteful, but fuel isn’t a concern right now.

All of a sudden, Jim and Amos both start shouting and it sounds _so real_ , _so panicked_ that Alex jumps up before he realizes what he’s done. It’s gotta be part of the show. Right? But the yelling makes Alex’s heart seize up with fear and he finds himself climbing down the ladder to the ops deck.

Naomi is standing by her crash couch, her fingers knotted together. There’s no reason for her to look _horrified_ if it’s all going according to plan. There’s no one here to put on an act for except the ghost of Alex Kamal.

He hurries to her side.

On the feed, a drop of sweat rolls down Holden’s face. His hand terminal is unsteady and the connection cuts in and out. There’s one final shout and then the feed goes dead.

Naomi shakes off her shock and moves, fingers flying over her console as she remotely hacks into the closest space station to Jim and Amos’ ship and searches with long-range scanners. The signal is gone and there’s a fireball in space at their last known coordinates.

Alex is _useless._

A sack of meat, standing beside Naomi, completely without purpose or direction.

Naomi’s fingers stop moving on the console as she stares blankly at the screen and he can see tears, glimmering like gems, as they begin to fill her eyes.

Alex starts to shake, a tremor from deep in his core. He clenches his fists into balls. This can’t be real.

Right?

It just can’t.

No one stages a scheme this elaborate and then dies mid-scene.

Unless…

With the whole galaxy tracking them, who knows who could’ve been on their tail? The U.N.? Belter Bounty Hunters? Some Earther who thought it’d be a shit-ton of fun to silence the galaxy’s most irresponsible broadcaster?

And then, as quickly as the horror began, it’s over, and there’s an incoming tight beam.

It’s Jim, checking in, and Naomi lets out a string of angry Belter expletives that Alex doesn’t need to understand to _get_. There’s tears, there’s yelling, and then Jim goes back on the air.

He declares Alex avenged.

The bad guys are defeated. Score one for Mars and all her lost sons and daughters.

As Alex climbs back up to the safety of the pilot’s deck, he reflects on what Naomi said the other day about the grief in Jim’s eyes. He wonders if there’s something to it, wonders if he really might be the _reason_ behind Holden’s actions, and not just an afterthought.

And then he overhears Naomi telling Jim, gently, to be prepared. He can tell by the tenor and volume of her voice that it’s not meant for his ears, and so he grabs a headset, ready to drown out their conversation, but before he can get it on, he hears Jim’s incredulous reply.

“You’ve _got to be kidding me._ Alex is _still_ pissed off?”

 _Still_ pissed off.

As if he and Jim had a heart-to-heart over a couple of beers, worked out it out, agreed they’d both been assholes, and then flying in the face of their resolution, Alex had decided he was still pissed.

 _Still pissed_.

Alex lays in a course to meet the ship. And he seethes.

* * *

Sixty-one hours later, Jim and Amos return and Alex and Naomi are there to greet the pair of them.

Or rather, Naomi is there to greet them.

Alex doesn’t think, he just takes a swing at Holden’s smug, grinning face, and then there’s pain shooting through his hand and there’s blood and shouting and Jim rebounds off the wall, coming back in for a fight.

And that’s good.

That’s what Alex _wants_.

A fight.

He wants to handle this with fists because there’s no other way to resolve all the ugly, tornadic feelings he has inside. He’s looking for a scrap, a chance to pummel the captain until the demon is sated and the dust can settle. Until he can get the image of his mother crying on her knees out of his mind.

“You killed me, you asshole!” he shouts.

He doesn’t even realize it at first, that Amos is now standing between them, an immovable barrier.

“When are you gonna stop being so...so _selfish_?” Holden snaps and the word cracks against Alex’s skin like a whip. His whole body seizes up in response to the white-lightning pain.

“Selfish.”

Was that his voice? Or did Amos say that?

No, Alex realizes as he closes his mouth, it must have been him.

“Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you, Mr. Kamal.” Holden's voice comes out weird, stuffy from what’s surely a broken nose.

“Everything you’ve done, you’ve done for yourself!” Alex snarls. “For your own morals, for your own sense of justice. I’m barely even a consideration.”

They shout at one another across Amos, who continually makes minute adjustments to keep them away from each other.

Alex looks up at his friend, and he says, “Just let us handle this, Amos.”

“Can’t have you pummeling the captain,” he growls and then with a wink he whispers, “You already got your shot in.”

“Boys,” Naomi interjects. Her voice is quiet, but hard. She doesn’t shout, she doesn’t need to. She walks up to Amos and places a hand on his shoulder. He moves aside, letting her stand between the two furious men. She towers over them, glaring back and forth between them. “This stops right here.”

“But—” Holden splutters, blood from his nose coating the front of his jumpsuit.

“Jim, get yourself to the auto-doc. Alex, your quarters. You’re both going to cool your heads.”

For a second, neither of them moves and then Naomi snarls, “ _Now._ ”

* * *

At first, he considers not answering the chime at his door. It’s petulant, but there ain’t anyone on this ship he much feels like seeing right now. Maybe Amos, but _only_ maybe. After all, Amos was in on Jim’s plan from the beginning, too.

The chime comes again, persistent.

Everyone on the ship knows he’s in here. XO sent him into timeout, didn’t she? He doesn’t even have the pleasure of piloting from his hand terminal, ’cause Naomi’s killed thrust to make repairs.

He floats in the air, weightless in null g and decides _Ah, screw it_. If it’s Jim, maybe they can start whaling on each other again. Except he won’t. Some of the anger’s left him and guilt has filled the vacuum formed by its absence.

He hauled off and hit Jim. His captain. His friend.

Alex isn’t really a physical kind of guy. He’s always preferred joking his way out of tense situations, stepping out sideways before things came to blows. That doesn’t mean this was his first time breaking someone’s nose, but it’s been a minute since his MCRN days. He’s forty now, Jesus. No reason to go around swinging his fists when words’ll work.

But words don’t always seem to get the job done with James Holden.

The door chimes a third time, followed by a heavy-fisted knock and Alex knows then who it is. And yeah, he’s glad it’s Amos.

“Hey,” Amos says when Alex opens the door. The man’s standing there with mag-boots on, seeming so solid that he generates his own gravity. There’s a questionable looking sandwich in one hand and a bulb of muddy liquid in the other. “Not much left in the refrigeration unit. You hungry?”

“Um, yeah.” And Alex discovers he is. How long’s it been since he ate? And why didn’t he notice before? “You wanna come in?”

Amos shrugs and follows him inside. His quarters seem small when they’re both in here together. So Alex pushes off and grabs the edge of his bunk, pulling himself down and hooking a leg underneath. Always weird trying to sit in zero g.

“Thanks for the food,” he says, unwrapping the sandwich. It’s nothing much to look at, but Alex chomps into it like a man given his last meal.

“No trouble, you look like shit. Thin.”

“Bein’ dead will do that to you,” he says, a tad more caustically than he means to. To lighten the mood, he pats his belly, which isn’t quite as flat as it used to be. “Could stand to lose some weight anyway.”

It strikes him it’s odd Amos noticed. _He_ hasn’t noticed, not really.   _Is_ he looking thin? He takes another bite of the sandwich.

“You’re pissed,” Amos says. Not a question. “I get it, I’d be fuckin’ pissed too.”

Alex nods slowly, his eyes resting on the exposed meat and cheese-product of his sandwich. “That’s one way of puttin’ it,” he says.

“But you can’t go hitting the captain,” Amos says.

Alex looks up sharply at that. “I’m a grown man. I can do what I damn well please.”

“Sure,” Amos shrugs, looking unconcerned.

“But you’re gonna stop me if it comes down to it.”

“Well, yeah.”

“That what you came to say? ‘Have a sandwich, stay away from Holden?’”

“You’re not getting it, brother,” Amos says. “Yeah, if you take a swing at Jim, I’m gonna stop you. He takes a swing at you, I’ll stop him, too. But that’s not what I mean.”

“What, then?” he doesn’t even taste the next bite of his sandwich.

“You can’t go hitting the captain because that’s _not you_. Don’t got much left right now, do you?” Amos says. “You’re a dead man. I’ve been there.”

Alex glances up at Amos, tries to read his friend’s deadpan expression. _I’ve been there_. When? In Baltimore?

“He _killed_ me.”

“Yep.”

The silence stretches for long minutes and when Alex looks down again, his sandwich is gone. He takes a long pull from the bulb. Coffee. Not bad coffee either, Jim probably made it.

“Guess it doesn’t matter anymore,” Alex says finally. “Point is, I’m dead.”

“ _Lot_ of freedom in being dead,” Amos agrees, and again, Alex wonders what happened that the man so intimately understands the concept.

“I can’t talk to my sister anymore.”

“Nope.”

“I can’t contact...anyone. I don’t have...anyone.”

Amos frowns at that, a deep frown, displeased. “You got me,” he says. Is he insulted? No, it’s more confused, like he can’t imagine how Alex came to think he was alone. “You’ve got all of us.”

 _But_ …

The argument dies before it finds its way out of his mouth. He has his best girl, the _Rocinante_ , he has his XO and his captain. He has his best friend, his mechanic. He has his _family_. And if he was on Mars, he’d just be wishin’ he was out here, among the stars.

“This is all such horseshit.”

“Yep,” Amos says. “But we’ll survive.”

 _We..._ Alex thinks, _We’ll survive_.

<<< >>>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_THANK YOU_** for engaging with this story. Honestly, I've *never* been part of such an awesome fandom before and the feeling is wonderful. T^T <3


	11. Now

**-NOW-**

 

Alex has been on the Pilot’s Deck for a good twelve hours now, leaving only once to take a piss and grab what passes for a frozen corn dog. He’s not hiding, not exactly. Just spending a bit of time with his best girl.

Except he’s also kind of ignoring her, favoring the hand terminal in his lap over her output displays. He checks in every hour or so— _yep, still on course. Nope, no sign of any enemy ships approaching_. _Rocinante_ doesn’t seem to mind his half-attention.

Alex is turned sideways in his chair, legs hanging over the armrest, watching newsfeeds and then flipping past as each one loses flavor. The whole galaxy’s gone to shit, but that ain’t new, is it? Same ol’, same ol’.

> “— _After almost two hundred years in business, Blue Shores Global has announced plans to file for bankruptcy. The terraforming company was instrumental in aiding Ganymede during early colonization efforts and had, in recent years, dedicated the bulk of its efforts to contracts with the Martian government to aid in the terraforming of Mars. Hit hard by the U.N. sanctions, BSG has spent the past few months selling off assets in an attempt to_ —”
> 
> “ _—accused of rigging the vote in the favor of young starlet, Georgina Ng—_ ”
> 
> “—‘ _Belta won’t sink’n’boom like_ pashang _Dusters. No collars. No trinkets. U.N. can_ pashang fong _or get dead._ Moriremos libres! _’ OPA faction leader Abioye’s statement came just hours after rumors began to circulate about a secret U.N. document proposing measures similar to the Martian Sponsorship program for Belters living on Earth_ —”
> 
> “ _—officially in. Kansas City Royals left fielder, Mercedes Trent will go on to play the All-Star Game, as well as participate in the Home Run Derby on Luna. Since her rookie year in ’76, Trent has shattered seven single-season league records and_ —”
> 
> “— _led to protests outside the capitol building. Security forces were on hand in case of violence. Many of the protestors carried pictures of Alex Kamal, whose death six months ago put a face to the ongoing Martian struggle_ —”

Alex sits up at that, dropping his feet to the floor, cradling the hand terminal. He hunches over the screen.

 _Six months_. Christ. Has he been dead that long? He watches the screen in wonder as Martians carry signs and shout slogans of freedom. They are red-faced and angry, a tension boiling beneath the surface, a step away from violence. And there’s his picture on signs. It’s an old one, from his MCRN days. He had more hair back then, fewer lines on his face. That guy died long before Alex did, and yet they hold him up as a symbol.

And here he’s been hiding like a rat on the Roci all this time.

He scans the crowd for familiar faces, but there’s no one he recognizes. That’s good. He doesn’t want his family caught up in this.

“How are you doin’, brother?”

He hadn’t heard Amos’ approach, and he quickly turns off his hand terminal, irrationally embarrassed to be in the news, and doubly so to be caught watching it.

The man’s hand suddenly on the back of his neck is gentle and firm and Alex involuntarily leans back, relishing the feeling of support and security. He closes his eyes and rests there, relaxed for the first time in a while.

“Headache’s gone,” he says after a long minute. _Ass is fine too finally_ , he doesn’t say.

“Glad to hear it, but you know that’s not what I meant.”

Nah, not _is your body healed?_ But _are you OK really?_ It’s been a while since anyone asked.

The answer is no, so he doesn’t lie.

“Feel like I’m full of bees, you know?”

“Yep.”

“Can we…?” Alex slowly raises his head and pulls himself out of his chair. There’s not a lot of room on the deck, and Amos’ bulk crowds the space even more. He turns to face his friend who is looking at him with open and genuine interest. The words hang between them.

Screw it. He presses against Amos, feels the hard plane of the man and the immediate stirring of his interest. Amos lets out a rumbling chuckle that reverberates through Alex.

“I need you,” Alex murmurs and when Amos’ arms circle his waist, pulling him even closer, he sighs.

“Okay, but we’re not gonna do it like last time,” Amos reminds him.

“I know. I don’t want it like last time, Ames. I just want you.” He realizes how vulnerable he sounds, laying it all out there like that, but it’s the truth. Nothing makes a lick of sense to him...except Amos.

Alex shivers as Amos’ lips drag roughly over the side of his neck.

“Let’s take this back to my room.”

“Don’t want to do it here?” Amos has a smirk on his face and Alex wonders if he’s only imagining the affection in his friend’s eyes.

“I’d like us to take our time. Would like you to take your time with _me_. Can’t do that if Cap or XO can just pop up here.”

Amos nods.

They pass Naomi heading for the Mess on their way to Alex’s room and he feels his ears go red, as if she _knows_ what they’re planning. A thousand reasons they could be walking together, and only a few of those include bedding down, but something in her expression makes him think she’s got them pegged.

Christ.

The feeling stays with him all the way to his quarters and he only shakes it off once the door is sealed behind them.

There’s no pause, no lingering looks, they’re just on each other, tearing off clothing and kissing and touching like they’ve gone mad with desperation. Well, like Amos has, at least. Lord knows Alex is already there, has been there for months.

When Amos pushes Alex away and falls back against the bulkhead, they’re both gasping for air like fish in a boat.

“Hold on there, ‘Hoss.’” Amos smirks, still struggling to catch his breath. He holds Alex by both wrists. “I thought you wanted me to take my time.”

Alex lets out a groan. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

Their kissing changes, becomes deeper, slower as they cling to each other, making their way over to the bed, hands roaming, exploring, each other’s bodies. Alex hisses in pleasure as Amos grabs his ass and hauls him up on his toes for one last sloppy kiss before gently pushing him down on the mattress. The body-conforming foam molds around him.

For a moment, Amos just looms, gripping the railing of the upper bunk and staring down at Alex with hunger. He wets his lips. The muscles in his torso are stretched taut and it’s the damn most beautiful thing Alex has ever seen. His cock twitches as Amos slowly lowers himself down over Alex.

His kisses are, somehow, even more needful. Slow, but probing deep into Alex’s mouth, giving and taking in damn near equal measure. He feels like he’d be just fine if they kissed forever.

Alex lets out a low, desperate sound when Amos withdraws.

He just might be starting to regret asking Amos to take his time.

The mechanic trails lingering kisses down his body, hitting spots that make him shiver with need, sucking up welts that will leave him marked. When Amos catches one nipple gently between his teeth, Alex comes half-up off the bed.

“Been wanting this,” Amos grunts as he lathes his tongue down Alex’s stomach, circling his bellybutton, making the muscles in his gut clench. The words make Alex feel hot all over. He likes knowing he’s not the only one who’s been obsessing over this. “Gonna fuck you good, Alex.”

And then Amos’ mouth is on his cock and Alex doesn’t blow his load, but it’s a near thing. He runs his hand over Amos’s head, feeling the soft buzz-cut. He wishes Amos had hair long enough to grab because, dammit all, his mouth feels like… Nah, there ain’t words for it.

Ain’t words for anything in the whole galaxy.

He huffs out a hot breath as Amos’ tongue circles his cock, teasing the head. Then Amos takes him in deep. It’s so wet and good and…

“Please, Amos,” Alex begs, and then he goes stock still, stung by the memory of the last time he begged. Begged to be _hurt_. To _bleed_. To be forced to feel _something new._ It scares him, that memory, the lack of self-preservation, the desperate need he’d felt for destruction. He doesn’t realize he’s dug his fingers deep into Amos’s shoulders until Amos pulls back.

He lays a heavy hand against Alex’s chest, stilling the trembling in his body. “Shh, I got you, brother.”

 _I got you_. And he does. He does. This time is different, Alex reminds himself. This time is different.

“Can you just…?” _Just what?_

“Tell me what you want, Alex.”

Alex swallows heavily. “You. Inside me.”

Amos gives a short nod.

Amos, ever the mechanic, has brought a little bottle of lubricant to make things slide easy. He takes his time coating his fingers, working Alex open, slowly, methodically. Alex tenses and Amos has to ease him through with gentle words and patience, but he finally loosens and there’s first one finger, and then another joins. Amos teases and stretches and curls along Alex’s prostate until Alex is gasping and writhing, crazy for more.

_Please please please please please!_

Only when he’s satisfied Alex is worked open enough does Amos add the third finger. The burn is intense and Alex grapples for his cock, trying to draw focus off the overwhelming sensations in his ass. It throbs in his hand.

“That feel good, Alex?” Amos asks and Alex nods dumbly, picking up the pace of his stroking. He could easily come this way. Theme of the evening. But he wants Amos inside him when he blows. Wants to be connected to Amos, pinned down, consumed.

“Can ya… Will ya…?” _Words_ , _Alex Kamal._ “Put it in me.”

Amos doesn’t answer immediately, continuing, instead, to tease. He pulls his fingers out, leaving Alex gaping open and empty and crazed. When one finger returns, testing out the give, he thinks he’s going to go even more bonkers than he already was.

“I’m ready,” he gasps. And this time he thinks it’s really true.

Amos wipes his fingers on his leg, takes the bottle and drips lubricant over his straining cock. Alex watches, feeling tremendous relief at the knowledge that he’ll finally be _full._  His vision goes hazy as he watches Amos stroke himself, the thick coat of slick reflecting the dim light.

It’s near criminal when Amos lines himself up with Alex’s hole and slowly— _s_ _o goddamn slowly_ —pushes inside. The way Alex’s body takes him in, it’s like he was made for Amos. Just Amos. _Only Amos._

And then that thick, delicious cock is seated deep inside of him, and there’s the first lazy thrust.

It’s as if every part of Alex has gone numb, his whole body anaesthetized, except for his dick and his—! _GODDAMN_ , he’s on fire. It’s nothing like the last time. The only similarities are the actors playing their parts.

Amos picks up the pace, thrusting forcefully, and Alex doesn’t know when he came. There’s hot ejaculate pooled in his navel and running down his sides, but his cock is still mostly-erect in his hand and he can feel the ache of refraction. His thoughts are torn, disjointed. He never knew sex could be this intense, this fulfilling, this…

Amos comes with a snarl, crushing Alex to him, and their teeth and tongues clash hard in the storm of his orgasm. They ride it out together, and as their kisses get sloppier, lazier in the afterglow, Alex clings to Amos.

He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of sex and sweat and that distinctly _Amos_ aroma and he says, “We’re gonna have to do this twenty more times tonight. At least.”

Amos grunts an agreement.

* * *

Later, when Alex is swimming between sleep and awake, he feels a kiss at his temple. He opens one eye, feeling warm and good and almost normal.

“I was s’posed to tell you”—Amos murmurs, tracing his fingers along Alex’s skin and making him shiver—“We’re picking up Prax near Io.”

Alex blinks away the sleep that was threatening to take him back under.

“Why?” The word comes out a little too sharp and it’s incongruous to how he feels. The sleepy warmth shifts and dissipates and Alex hates to lose it. But a guest on the Roci never means good things for him. “I ain’t goin’ back in the hulls.” His accent comes out thick, his voice desperate. “We did that man a good turn once and if we can’t trust him then—”

Amos puts a hand on Alex’s chest like he did when the panic rose earlier. Immediately, Alex feels a degree or two calmer. It’s a powerful touch Amos has.

“Cap said you can stay in your room.”

Relief floods, cool and welcome.

Praxidike Meng. He’s a funny little guy, communicating 90% through plant-language. Alex thinks hearing about plants would suit him just fine about now. Anything for a change of pace. Of course any stories will have to come secondhand through the Roci crew, but he’ll take what he can get.

Prax and Amos get on well. Alex always sort of envied it, the easy way the two of them have.

It’s not that he and Amos aren’t easy. Sure, they are. They’ve been best friends for years, but it’s awful hard not to feel like he’s been out of sync—a misstep off from Amos—for the last few months.

Hell, he’s a misstep away from everyone he ever loved.

But he doesn’t want to be.

“He bringin’ his daughter?” he asks, to have something to say.

A grin spreads over Amos’ face that makes Alex’s heart twist in ways he can’t quite explain. Amos and kids. The big man’s soft spot for children has always been a bit of a puzzle.

“Dunno. Maybe. She might still be on Ganymede.”

Alex doesn’t want to think about the Mengs anymore and so he kisses Amos, putting fire behind it. “While I’m room-bound, think you can come keep me company from time to time? I can make it worth your while.”

Amos grins. “Sounds manageable.”

Good. Then Alex thinks he might be able to survive a day longer, at least.

<<< >>>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I know I say in every comment how much I appreciate your messages, but genuinely--I'm so honored. You guys are all actually a frequent topic of conversation in the household :) When I say your interactions give me life, *they give me LIFE*. Thank you <3


	12. Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for the delay guys! (Jesus, two months?! Really?!) Depression hardcore sucks. But I want you to know that even when things are difficult, I'm dedicated to my love for Alex and Amos. I'm not giving up on this story! Thank you so much for being patient with me and also, thank you to everyone for your kind words. This is literally the best fandom in the world. <3 I'm so proud to be part of it!

**-THEN-**

 

It’s funny the way things come back to you, particularly when you’ve got nothing to do but think. When Alex is jacking off and when he’s flying are the only times his mind is actually  _ still _ . So, he does both. A lot.

But when he’s lying awake in bed—alone in the dark—Alex thinks. And he  _ remembers _ .

Casey’s been on his mind a lot lately. They’ve always been close, even though they fought like cats and dogs when they were kids. She was the older sister. Big and mean, but fiercely protective, too. She was always fighting his battles for him and he was always so goddamn desperate to grow up, to get stronger, to finally make it to a place in his life where he didn’t need her help. And then, he could become  _ her _ protector.

Now...he can’t help Casey at all.

May never be able to again.  

They’re out deep, near Ceres, and even if he could send her a message the lag time would be miserable. Hours, at least. Not much of a conversation. But still, he wishes he could hear her voice. Nah, that ain’t quite it. He can  _ hear _ her voice any time he wants—he’s got a few messages saved on his hand terminal.

But those are like autumn leaves. 

They  _ used _ to be alive, back when  _ he  _ used to be alive. Now they’re from ‘before.’ That nebulous  _ before _ . Before Holden killed him, before he was in hiding, before the Sponsorship Program.

Sometimes, in vivid fantasies that burn right behind his eyelids, he storms the U.N., guns blazing, and burns the fucker to the ground. As if the U.N. is only a building, and not a group of people, an ideology. Scares him to think that way.

Scares him how he’s changing.

Must be, right? He hauled off and hit  _ his captain _ in the face.

Holden hasn’t apologized and Alex hasn’t either. He’s pretty sure the time for apologies has past, and what was once ripe is now rotten. It eats him up a little: the regret, and the knowledge that, given the chance to go back, he’d do it all over again.

Any time he and Jim pass in the hall, or talk over comms, he can feel the tension. The hairs bristling at the back of his neck.

It makes crew dinners a helluva thing.

* * *

The lower decks are damn near the only place that’s safe for Alex these days. Anywhere north of the galley, the risk of encountering Jim is too great. The captain seems to be constantly on the move, floating here, there, and everywhere, full of the same restless energy that’s driving Alex to distraction.

So here’s Alex, leaning against the wall in the machine shop while Amos does some wholly unnecessary supervision of the printing of a handful of new parts. One foot propped up on a box of discards, Alex chatters incessantly. It feels good to talk. He’s not talking  _ about  _ anything in particular. Just running his mouth. His mama always said he’d chat up a traffic signal if there weren’t any people around to jaw at. She wasn’t far off the mark. He can remember late-night comm conversations with friends, still talking long after they’d fallen asleep.

He never really needs a response, but it sure does grease the gears. And right now, Amos’ grunts—just enough noise to let Alex know the big man’s still aware of his presence—aren’t quite cutting it.

“You listenin’ to a word I’m saying?”

“Kinda hard not to,” Amos replies. “Somethin’ on your mind, brother?”

Something  _ real _ , he means.

“Nah,” Alex says, frowning.

“Then if you’re gonna bug me, least you can do is make yourself useful. Save me calling Naomi down here.”

“Didn’t realize I was troubling you, big guy.”

“You are,” Amos says, and his playful tone makes Alex grin.

“What needs doin’? Put me to work, boss.”

After a hiss and a bit of grinding and whirring, Amos comes up from the table with a new part hot in his hands. One end of the tungsten is still glowing bright red, but the mechanic doesn’t seem too troubled by the heat. He nods down the ladder and Alex bounces over and slides down, moving lightly in the quarter g. 

Amos follows him down. He motions toward an open panel beneath the main console. “Crawl in there.”

Alex lets out a chuckle.  _ Crawl in there _ . Well, alright then. He climbs down off the railing and makes his way to the gaping maw beneath the console.

“How far in?”

“Until you hit your head against the back.”

“Sounds fun.” Alex starts to crawl in, realizes he’ll have a helluva time turning over, and lays on his back, pushing himself in with his legs. “Shit, should have brought a light.”

“Nope. Some of the components are photosensitive. You’d just fuck it up with a light.”

“That seems like shit planning.”

“Blame the MCRN.”

Alex chuckles and wriggles in further until his head bumps against the back wall.

“Now you’re gonna want to reach way up and to the right. You should feel a panel back there.”

Alex groans and shifts uncomfortably in the tight space. It’s cramped, dark, and honestly, a little goddamn  _ creepy _ down here with his hands in the console’s ‘guts.’ Not that he doesn’t trust Amos, but it does feel like he could get electrocuted at any second.

Least for now he’s not bored.

Alex’s nails scrape against the edge of the panel.

“Got it.”

“Push up and in, it might stick a little.”

_ A little _ is an understatement and Alex ends up bracing himself with his knee and digging in with both hands to get the damn thing open. He grunts and groans as he works with the stubborn steel.

“You openin’ the thing or fucking it, Alex?” Amos chuckles.

Alex smiles, “A little of both?” 

“Alright, reach inside—careful—do you feel a button right along the edge of the opening?”

He feels past cables and wires until his fingers touch something distinctly button-shaped.

“Yep, got it.”

“Make sure, it’ll be blue.”

“Well, since I ain’t got light to see it, partner, let’s just assume it’s blue.”

Something groans and clanks in the panel. “How the hell do you do this every day?”

“It’s good,” Amos says. “Been breakin’ things my whole life. Awful nice to be setting them right instead.” His voice is light, friendly, but there’s something else underneath. A profound note of truth that gives Alex pause. The moment lingers and his fingers trace the button.

“Um, so I found it, I’m touching it, I’m—”

_ Pressing it. _ That’s what Alex would have said if not for the ice-cold water spraying him in the face. He shouts and flails, as much as one can flail in such a confined space. He bangs the sides of the crawlspace, spitting and gargling beneath the spray. From somewhere far, far away he can hear Amos calling to him.

Cold, cold,  _ cold,  _ so cold! How can it be so cold? How can  _ anything in the galaxy be so goddamn cold?  _ He reaches up to block the blast of frigid water but only manages to focus the spray so it ricochets off the metallic walls and right back into his face. 

As the spray dies away he hears great guffaws of laughter and he kicks out, falling sadly short of Amos’ shins.

“You’re gonna want to  _ not  _ push that button, brother.” Amos’ laugh is a wonderful thing Alex might enjoy a bit more if his fingers weren’t frozen and his jumpsuit soaked through and plastered to him. “Got it?”

“Got it,” Alex says with a heavy sigh. “Maybe next time you could tell me  _ which  _ buttons you  _ do  _ want me to press instead of givin’ me very detailed instructions to find the one that’ll blast water in my face?”

Amos just keeps laughing.

* * *

Alex can remember loving crew dinners. How playful they were, how much fun it was to cook and eat with his friends. Nothing like the chore it’s become. He can remember laughing. He can remember when things were easy. But that was a different life.

Holden looks at him from across the table, and Alex meets his eye. He doesn’t quite glare, but his look sure ain’t ‘soft’ by anyone’s dictionary definition. Alex pushes back his chair, ignores the questioning looks he gets, and goes to the drawer across from the refrigeration unit.

Inside he finds three dice.

It’s been a while since they’ve played.

He closes his fingers over them and memories flood back. He remembers Holden passionately telling the table that if he can’t at least manage a tie, he’s gonna throw himself out an airlock. There’s a lot of liquor involved and everyone is laughing to the point of tears. Next turn, Naomi rolls all fives.  _ Bunko. _ Holden’s expression. Christ. Alex had never seen anything so damn funny. And then Amos had stood up, picked Holden up like it was nothing, and started carrying him toward the airlock.

Naomi’d actually slid down into the floor she was laughing so hard.

Alex doesn’t imagine they’re gonna have that kind of fun tonight. But he’s sick of the silence. Sick of the scratch of forks against plates. They’re going to add the clattering of dice to the mix, if nothing else.

“Ones,” he announces, rolls, comes up empty, and then pushes the dice to Holden. Jim considers them for a minute like they might be small shaped charges. He heaves a sigh and then gathers them in his hand and lets them roll to the table. His lips quirk when he rolls a pair of ones. He snatches up the dice and rolls again.

Conversation builds around the game. Nothing terribly important, nothing terribly interesting either, just conversation. The kind humans have when they break bread with other humans they care about.

Amos just took the threes when Naomi’s hand terminal starts beeping. She rolls absently, comes up empty, and passes the dice to Alex. He takes his turn, his grin expanding as he hits fours over and over—seven damn times—before finally having to pass to Jim.

Holden half-grins at him. “You’ve been practicing, Mr. Kamal.”

“You know me,” Alex says. “Dice whisperer.”

Amos grunts triumphantly at three 2s—a Baby, five points—and passes the dice to Naomi. Except Naomi is no longer present, no longer in the game. She’s pulled her knees up in the chair, her chin resting on them, typing furiously on her hand terminal. Her lips are pursed and a crease has formed between her brows.

“You gonna roll, Boss?” Amos asks, raising a brow at her and tapping the table impatiently. But Naomi waves him off.

“Coded message.” Her eyes scan the screen. “Almost...got it...and…” She frowns deeper and looks up. “Distress call from the  _ Peregrine _ .”

After a few more taps at her screen, an efficient, and official-sounding voice says,  _ “ _ — _ attacked. Our life support is failing. Any assistance you can provide _ — _ ”  _ There’s a slew of clicks and beeps, followed by a series of numbers, 4327. There’s a pause and then the message starts up again. “ _ This is Captain Frida Noon  _ of the  _ Peregrine _ .  _ We are a civilian transport ship. This afternoon, we discovered militants onboard. They attacked. Our life support is failing. Any assistance you can provide _ ——— _ 4328.” _

“Having trouble pulling a timestamp,” Naomi says.

Alex does some quick calculations in his head. “If it’s a standard six-per-minute, one-minute delay, then this went out...about twelve hours ago. Means nothing without knowing where they’re at, though.”

“You got their location, Naomi?” Jim asks.

“Nowhere good if they’ve been broadcasting this long without a response.”

“Not so sure we should put our necks out,” Amos says. “We’re s’posed to be laying low just now. ’Sides, they’re probably all dead.”

“Probably,” Jim agrees, but he’s got that look in his eye. That look that says no matter the crumbling state of the galaxy, he’s gonna go try and do what’s right. Alex hates him a little for that, but he admires him more.

They’ll go, check it out.

* * *

The second Alex slides into his chair, he feels alive. 

He doesn’t have any hope that there are survivors on the  _ Peregrine _ either. Roci’s answered enough distress signals to know better. Probably, they’re walking straight into danger. But it doesn’t matter, because Alex is going to fly.

He sketches out a hard burn that’ll get them close. Not too much of a slowdown in case they need to skedaddle fast. He feels electric as he plots the course, fingers flying over his console, double-checking his calculations as always. He throws in a couple of hitches, simple computation errors, the new standard. But all-in-all, she’s a good plan.

“Going on the juice in two,” Alex announces over the comm. “Hope you’ve got a crash couch in your future, otherwise, you’ll be ridin’ the walls.”

It takes them six and a half hours to arrive but about twenty seconds to realize the  _ Peregrine  _ is dead in space. Of course, Holden has to double down, has to take Amos in and check things out.

“Keep her warm for us, Alex,” Jim says.

“Solid copy, Cap.”

The next hour is a series of messages tossed back and forth between Jim and Amos and Naomi, and Alex just listens, content to be on the outside for once. He doesn’t know why. He’s seen his share of dead ships, but there’s something about the  _ Peregrine _ that’s unsettling him.

_ “Looks like a massive hull breach wiped out the crew decks. Jesus-fucking-Christ. There’s nothin’ here.”  _ Amos.

_ “Only thing active on the command deck is the comm array. I’m killing the distress beacon for now.”  _ Jim.

_ “Route central computer access to me, Jim. I want to see if I can figure out what happened.”  _ Naomi.

“Let’s not hang around long, kids,” Alex says. “Even with Holden pullin’ the plug on that beacon, there’s bound to be scavengers on the way.”

_ “Won’t take a second _ — _ I’m in,”  _ Naomi says. “ _ Downloading logs and outgoing communication from the last forty-eight hours.” _

_ “We’re heading back _ ,” Holden says.

And then the messages start playing and the vague feeling of discontent curls and spirals like a hungry snake in his gut. The  _ Peregrine _ wasn’t just a transport ship. She was secretly transporting unsponsored MXs back to Mars. His comm is filled with the voices of ghosts, echoes of conversations only two days old.

Outgoing transmissions to the red planet.

— _ Daddy, I’m safe. I’m coming home. _

— _ This is Captain Noon requesting a meet-and-greet with the  _ Unyielding Arm.  _ We await transfer of your cargo. _

— _ God Jamie, I can’t wait to get you in bed. I’m gonna run my hands  _ all  _ over your naked body and put my mouth on your _ —

Naomi pulls a thread and a whole new narrative unspools. The voice is distorted, reconstituted. 

— _...Colonel Ndiaye...kwrrrrrrr...last regular report...chwwwk...aboard suspected unsponsored Martian...tsssk...confirmed presence...brrrrrp...don’t have a lot of time...wwwwwwwwwb...disable the coolant system...chukchukchuk...should be dead in space...tsssssssssssssss...pick up the Dusters near Io... _

The cold sound of the U.N. spy’s voice continues, conveying their coordinates and adding a colorful thought or two about the ‘cattle’ onboard. Alex feels brittle, like the breeze from the air circulation system could just break him. Those were  _ people _ . A group of MXs and a couple of sympathetic Belters. 

The chances that  _ any  _ of those folks had anything to do with the war is beyond slim. They weren’t ex-MCRN. They weren’t on the frontlines in Power Armor, breaking Earthers left and right. They were just people. But the U.N. wants blood on blood on blood, and they’ll take it by the gallon. 

It isn’t enough that Earth  _ won _ , they had to  _ dominate _ , they had to  _ humble  _ Mars and her citizens.

Alex asks for permission to get them burning the hell out of Dodge. Jim agrees. 

Five hours later, Alex cuts their burn to ¾ g and they gather on the ops deck.

“I’m going to cut to the chase,” Naomi says. She paces with her hands on her hips. “This has real implications for you, Alex. We’re going to need somewhere to hide you if things go to shit,” Her jaw is set, her eyes narrowed.

“Not necessary,” Amos says. “I’ll kill any motherfucker that tries to take him.”

“Appreciate it, partner,” Alex replies with a grin he doesn’t feel.

“Not everything can be settled with your automatic shotgun, Ames.” Naomi cuts hard and circles back, her path growing tighter on each pass. “Don’t give me that look.”

“I’ve been looking for allies,” Jim says.

“Allies’re what got the  _ Peregrine _ killed,” Amos grunts.

“We can’t go it alone,” Jim agrees. “But we’ve gotta be prepared. And that means a live test. Alex, get your EVA suit on. You’re going between the hulls.”

<<< >>>


	13. Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter?! A NEW CHAPTER! <3 I adore you guys and hope everyone is doing well!

**-NOW-**

 

Alex wakes up feeling safe.

The feeling is so bizarre and unusual that for a while he just lays there, holding his breath, afraid it’ll all fall apart. When a little time has passed and the feeling of safety remains, he lets out the breath and turns his head. He’s tucked in the crook of Amos’s arm, warm against the solid wall of the big man’s body. Amos stares down at him, expression unreadable.

“Hey, hoss.”

“Hey, brother.”

“How long have I been out?”

“A couple of hours.”

“You didn’t go?”

“Nah,” Amos says, playing idly with a lock of Alex’s hair. The action makes a pleasant shiver run through his body. “Thought you might want to fuck again after a rest.”

“Ha!” Alex laughs. “Had me worried you might be gettin’ romantic on me.” He shuts his eyes and grins broadly as Amos’ hands find new and interesting ways to make him shiver. 

* * *

The Roci’s en route to rendezvous with a couple of new passengers: Avasarala and Bobbie, and Prax, for good measure. Alex can’t quite shake out just what he feels about it. In the past, they’ve gone out of their way for all three of them. More than just allies, they’re  _ friends _ . And because they’re friends, that means Alex gets to stay in his own quarters.

Well,  _ has to _ , more like. Jim was a hair shy of ordering him confined to his quarters and slagging the door shut.

Because the galaxy’s a big, bad place and don’t forget what happened to the  _ Peregrine _ and yadda yadda yadda.

Alex’s been doing his homework, researching what their buddies have been up to over the last month. He reviewed video from that meeting at Asteroid 774,917. While Alex had been descending into a special hell of madness, the others were going around in circles with While Morrow, the jackass rep. from the OPA, and Tara Li, the acting head of Martian’s Home.

There was a shit-load of talk and damn near nothing got solved. See, Avasarala didn’t actually show for the meeting. She sent Bobbie instead. Alex can see the old bat’s logic: if everyone sees how the U.N. can work with the RME population, give ’em key roles, it might be good P.R. for the Sponsorship Program or some horseshit.

Except it’s Avasarala, so, probably, she just wanted everyone to  _ think _ that was what she was up to. Woman’s got schemes on schemes. But still, Alex trusts her. She always pulls it out at the end.

It didn’t matter, though. The assholes didn’t listen, they only saw a warrior giant, brought low, collared and tamed.  _ Look at Avasarala’s pet _ .  _ Sent to deliver a message. Expendable.  _ There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell they’d listen to what Bobbie had to say. 

This new meeting is supposed to be better, at least Holden seems convinced. Avasarala wants to meet up with what remains of the Roci crew and prepare for a second summit. She’s primed the pump with a concession that the U.N. is making. Alex has a feeling that when they say “the U.N. is making” they really mean, “that Avasarala bullied the U.N. into.”

_ Any ship carrying unsponsored Martian Expatriates that can prove definitively that it is headed to Mars with the express purpose of returning Martian citizens to their colony will be allowed safe passage. _

Looks great on paper, but that don’t mean it’s working. Because for the couple of weeks, anyone docking to pick up supplies is still finding individual colonies operating under Wild West rules: see it, take it. Ships are being boarded, and MXs are kidnapped and dragged to the EMSO.

So now, the ships aren’t stopping for supplies, and the people on longer journeys will end up starving.

That’s where Prax comes in.

Following up on Prax has been just about as dry as reviewing the meeting minutes from Asteroid 774,917. Alex has no idea how Meng can be so goddamn enthusiastic about plants, but he’s necessary and so is his work.

Avasarala yanked Prax off Ganymede and commissioned him to come up with some plans for ultra-fast growing, small-batch hydroponics for the ships carrying MXs back to Mars.

And there, in all its glory, is the sum total of what Alex knows about their soon-to-be guests. Pretty good, considering no one ever tells him a goddamn thing.

* * *

Amos doesn’t come back to Alex’s room after the rendezvous, which’s a kick in the teeth, but it’s twice the kicks because Alex was  _ waiting _ .

He watches an old noir film and he jerks off and he sleeps and he paces the room, but all the while he’s got an ear turned to the door, just waiting for Amos to make good on the promise to keep Alex company.

And then all that waiting pays off, because he hears the mechanic—his heavy footsteps and the voice that’s a familiar player in Alex’s thoughts these days. So Alex waits, anticipation pooling in his gut. He sits on the edge of the bed, trying to affect a casual cool, anything to hide the desperate  _ I’ve been waiting for you, you asshole.  _ His imagination sparks with thoughts of what they’ll do to each other today to pass the time.

“She’s doing well. She’s just started the first grade and her teacher put her in charge of the watering schedule for her class’s section of the community garden. There may have been some nepotism involved there.”

Praxidike Meng. His voice is a low, strange, distantly-familiar murmur. The hairs on Alex’s arms stand on end. Another person, right-goddamn-there, just outside his door.

Alex can remember sitting with him in the galley a lifetime ago. They were still looking for Mei at the time—and Alex had looked the guy straight in the eye and said he thought she’d probably been kidnapped by some sick fuck who wanted her for sex. To this day, Alex doesn’t know why he didn’t soften the blow, except he believed it and he’d reckoned Prax deserved the truth. It was a dick thing to say to a grieving, frantic father, though.

Amos’ sudden laughter brings Alex back to the here-and-now. The two men walk past, down the corridor, the sound of their conversation growing distant.

Alex tries to be rational.

Amos can’t just swing by for a quick lay when he’s got a guest with him. That makes sense. But when Amos doesn’t return that night and it’s Naomi bringing him dinner, rational gives way to pissed off.

“You doing okay in here, Alex?” Naomi asks, looking around his room with the concern of someone expecting the walls to be covered in a scribbled, ranting manifesto.

_ Real goddamn peachy _ , he wants to say because he and jealousy have been getting awful chummy today and Naomi being here instead of Amos is damn near the last straw. Instead, Alex smiles at her and asks, casual as he can muster, “Thought Amos was supposed to bring dinner?”

“He’s a bit busy helping set up a space for the hydroponics.”

Busy with Prax.

Interesting how he can be jealous of both men at the same time. Jealous of Amos getting to spend time with someone new. Someone with new thoughts, new experiences, new anecdotes to share. And jealous of Prax, who can make Amos laugh in such a casual, carefree, friendly sort of way.

“Why didn’t Prax bring his kiddo along?” he asks, because it suddenly occurs to him to wonder. Shit’s ugly in the galaxy right now, but he’d have thought Prax would never let Mei out of his sight again.

“Didn’t want to pull her out of school. But Avasarala made arrangements. She’s in good hands,” Naomi says. That’s as far as the conversation goes.

“Thanks for the meal, XO,” he finally says and she stares at him a moment longer, dark eyes searching. He wonders what she’s expecting to see. She nods and turns to go. There’s only so many times you can say,  _ I’m sorry your situation sucks _ before the words lose all flavor.

He wonders if apathy has set in, even for Naomi.

* * *

Alex wakes up needing to take a piss. He’s got his EVA suit, with the built-in condom catheter, but damned if he feels like climbing into the thing right now. He feels trapped, almost worse than even being between the hulls. He’s got to get out of his room.

So he goes and does his thing, but as he sneaks back, he stops at the cabin next to his.

He wants to know if Amos is in his room.

A sudden, sickening thought strikes him.

No, he doesn’t just want to know if Amos is  _ in his room _ . He wants to know if Amos is  _ alone.  _ He knocks quietly, but loud enough to be heard. Amos is quick to answer the door, almost as if he was waiting for the knock. Which, hey, knowing Amos and situational awareness, maybe.

“Hey, brother,” Amos says, raising an eyebrow and looking out into the hallway behind Alex. “It’s good to see you, but you shouldn’t—”

“Then you should’ve come to me.” Alex tries for playful. Maybe manages 30%. But screw it, he pushes against Amos, and Amos falls back into the room.

He pulls Amos into a kiss that the big man enthusiastically returns.

Any questions Alex might’ve had about why Amos didn’t bother to come to his room fly straight out of his head, because he’s suddenly wrapped in Amos’s arms. They help each other strip down to nothing, touch ghosting over naked skin. Alex tilts his head, exposing his neck and Amos bites and sucks. They kiss until Alex is so dizzy he can hardly stand and he pulls Amos with him toward the bunk, sinking down onto the mattress.

The next morning, Alex wakes up alone and rolls over, breathing deep into Amos’ pillow. It smells like him. Like sweat and grease and distinctly Amos. Then he sits up and stretches out all the kinks in his muscles and runs his hands over the delicious marks Amos left on his chest.

He checks the time on his hand terminal.

He’d love a shower, but he really should sneak on back to his room.

That’s Alex’s whole life now:  _ sneaking _ .

It’s not hard, as the crew deck seems to be abandoned, but when he gets to his door, he stops. His hand is outstretched, just a hair away from letting himself inside. And then Alex finds himself walking on, finds himself climbing quietly up to the galley.  _ Finds himself. _

“They’ll never admit it,” Avasarala is saying, “Because they’re too enamored with their own un-fucking-sustainable plan and none of them has ever heard of the goddamn sunk cost fallacy—but we’ve lost control of half a dozen EMSOs. The only thing holding the program together is just how childishly easy it is to hide evidence of corruption in all of this chaos.. Otherwise, Martian sympathizers would have turned the tables by now. Change  _ is _ happening. It’s just so goddamn slow.”

“We could—” Jim starts.

“Whatever stupid-ass thing you are about to say, James Holden, fold it up and tuck it back inside that idiot brain of yours,” Avasarala says. “I don’t need you taking us seven steps backward by shitting on my plans like a pigeon on a statue.”

Alex grins and shakes his head.

“How are the hydroponics coming, Prax?” Holden asks instead and Alex can practically  _ hear  _ the red in his captain’s cheeks.

“I’ve got two hybrid strains of soybeans I’m working with. So far, both are fast-growing and high-yield. Neither one is edible, however.”

“So you have nothing. Fucking brilliant,” Avasarala says bitterly.

Alex climbs up a few more rungs. Just a little closer to the friends-like-strangers, the people he used to know. He just wants to  _ see  _ them. Even if he can’t join the conversation, even if…

He continues to climb, a tremulous tension in his legs. He doesn’t try to justify what he’s doing. In fact, there’s no thought in his brain. No ‘ _ if I can’t trust Meng and Avasarala and Draper, who the hell can I trust?’ _ Not even a ‘ _ screw it, I’m really damn tired of hiding. _ ’

He’s just action. He’s just movement.

He steps through the passage and stands in the open.

Bobbie spots him first and her eyes go wide as moons, her lips parting and a silent, ‘oh my god,’ tracing her mouth. Avasarala, tired and grandmotherly-looking, turns her head next. And then all eyes are on him. There’s surprise and disbelief and annoyance.

“Howdy,” he greets the room at large.

Avasarala huffs a short laugh, her eyes twinkling. “Oh! You  _ are _ alive, Kamal. Good for you.”

<<< >>>

**Author's Note:**

> (Feedback makes the author blush and swoon! Please consider telling me what you think.)


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